


The Dying Cinders

by Stephen_Wormwood



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dystopia, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Science Fiction, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-08-05 21:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 66,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16374950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephen_Wormwood/pseuds/Stephen_Wormwood
Summary: Jay is a shy and cynical boy from a walled town that survived a world-destabilizing fertility crisis. His only interest is his friend-with-benefits, the violent and dangerous Parker. When fate throws them out into the wreckage of America, can they keep it together? Or be pulled apart?





	1. Polk, Part 1

Let me start from the beginning.

 

See, there’s a lot of things they don’t teach you in Polk. Evolution, mainly. But our classes (if you could call them that) always made time for the end – or at least how it began. They taught us that the United States of America was the chosen nation of God until it was infected by a strain of sin so potent that not even God’s endless supply of love and mercy could cure it. They taught us that we gave in to vice and debauchery – bowing before the unblinking eye of our television screens, worshipping the $ like an idol, promoting foetal genocide and pornography and sodomy, and elevating Hamites to the level of men. Those were our crimes. And so, they taught us, God meted out his punishment in the form of a scourge. A scourge of the womb. If my father wasn’t a doctor (a doctor who compulsively hoarded old medical journals in his pre- and post- MCAT days) they might have had me believing that too.

 

Smarter people called it the **Global Fertility Crisis** , back before this thing they called the world went to shit.

 

Whoever you are, let me tell you what I know about it.

 

It started in 1988 with a sudden and inexplicable 23% drop in global birth rates, followed by a 6.3% drop every subsequent year. The Crisis was top secret until a whistle-blower in the World Health Organization leaked a copy of its findings (known as the **Hamilton Study** ) to a French newspaper in 1991. This triggered a global panic that, according to my father, left everyone in America glued to their television screens; riots in London, marches in Paris, unrest in Moscow, protests in Tokyo, bombings in Tel Aviv. In response to the Crisis (or perhaps to placate its own uneasy masses) the government created a new branch of the CDC known as the **United States Refertilization Project** – USRP – with the sole purpose of studying and eventually curing the Global Fertility Crisis. Somehow it wasn’t until births completely flatlined in 1998 that the panic finally took America by the throat.

 

How do I know this?

 

When I was nine I made a book of clippings from the old newspapers my father kept during his time in DC (which he ultimately fled) and in it I pieced together what I believe to be the chain of events that brought us to where we are.

 

Some say it started with the assassination of President Buchanan in 1997, just half a year after securing his re-election, but I think it really kicked off in LA in 1999 with an explosive outbreak of AIDS that by 2001 had spread to all major American cities and the Northwest. That was when the riots started. When Atlanta went up in flames and protestors firebombed the White House and Jerry Falwell declared that the end of America was nigh. That was when gun sales went gangbusters and swelling militia movements retreated from the cities into ‘constitutional communes’; those who stayed behind launched bombing campaigns against federal offices and targeted attacks against US congressmen. And in the backdrop of all of this was as a growing consensus of one of two facts -- that the Global Fertility Crisis was either some sort of government conspiracy gone wrong – or God’s wrath on earth.

 

Either way, the national unrest of 2001 led to what became known as **The Occupation** – when the government declared a national state of emergency and deployed over 250,000 US soldiers to all American cities, power stations, highway routes and water sources. The goal was threefold – to put an end to the unrest, to protect the American industrial machine from total collapse, and to neutralize the increasing threat of the militia movement. What followed was what Congresswoman Feinstein referred to at the time as “a temporary suspension of certain specific privileges in the interest of public safety”. What followed were 9pm curfews and the banning of public protests, non-commercial inter-state travel and gun purchases. They outlawed bulk purchases of food, water, medicine and clothing to ensure equal distribution. They suspended output of any radio, television stations or newspaper offices found to be ‘trading in non-compliance’. They erected quarantine zones out of whole city blocks to isolate the AIDS-infected and set up detention camps to hold anyone who infringed upon the new directives. Depopulated cities like Baltimore and New Jersey became open air prisons for those who remained. By 2003 (or so the official reports go) the Occupation had successfully stymied all the bombings, assassinations and riots, as well as curtailing the AIDS epidemic.

 

But that was where the newspaper clippings end.

 

Everything after that is just rumours – rumours, and what you can see with your own eyes. Some say the Occupation ended when the military rose up and overthrew the government. Some say the Occupation just collapsed under its own weight through STDs, KIAs, lack of recruits, desertions and mutinies, etc. Some say that California and Texas seceded into their own republics and that the government sent the army south to reclaim them. No one knows the truth anymore. All anyone knows is America stopped being America the second it was over. What remained was the exsanguinated corpse of a once great country; ripped open, hollowed out, and left for the flies.

 

That’s the corpse we grew up in, Parker and me, our inheritance from a time gone by.

 

We’re going to make it our playground.

 

**********

 

The migraines came back. Jay palmed his skull, wincing. If someone stabbed a hand trowel into his brain, he wouldn’t have noticed it. And no one did seem to notice, no one except Billy Locke, who sat behind him with a sneering, over-shoulder grin, squeezing at the teats of Lil’ Bessie. His tin bucket was already 3 pints full by the looks of it. **_I know my way around a good set of teats,_ ** he’d once said stupidly, **_just ask all your mommas_**.

 

The shooting pains in his skull were bad. Giving Billy Locke the satisfaction of showing him up again was worse. And so, Jay grit his teeth through the agony and took hold of the waddling udder before him. Lil’ Maye was one of the town’s calmer cattle, but she was still a bitch to milk. Nevertheless, Jay stripped all four teats onto the cold stone floor, mopping up the mess with a cloth beneath his shoe, before he moved his tin pale underneath her udder and began milking her. It was boring work. Amongst all his chores Jay was unsold on milking, really. He decided to distract himself by thinking of Parker.

 

“Woohee!” Crooned Billy Locke, “Well lookie here, ain’t I just a lil’ ol’ badass at this? Any a y’all over there at half bucket already? Christ Jesus, you all sure ain’t! Watch me go at these goddamn titties!”

 

The rest of the class sniggered.

 

“That’s enough out of your mouth, Billy,” said Brother Wissop. He was the overseer of all chores involving the farmland, his land, land that provided eggs, milk and wool for all of Polk. “All of y’all remember what I told you. Squeeze, don’t yank. Grip the base of the teat, and milk it until it sags.”

 

The class sniggered at that too.

 

Despite his migraine, Jay allowed himself a moment of wonder -- how much older these idiots would have to be before ‘teat’ stopped being such a funny word? He wondered if Brother Wissop wondered that too, judging by the rock-jawed farmer’s wry frown. He wondered if Wissop just wanted to do what Jay always wanted to – take Billy Locke by that scruffy black hair of his and punch a screwdriver into his eye socket. Instead, there was a knock on the barn door. Everyone turned to it. Where beams of morning light fell through the gaps between its plywood boards and dappled the hay-laden floor, a shadow moved beyond. Brother Wissop went to answer it, meeting their guest outside rather than letting them in. He closed the door behind him.

 

Jay had only just about milked his first quarter when a different shadow fell over him and Lil’ Maye.

 

“Not even half done,” tutted Billy Locke. “Tell me, Mixon, is there _anything_ you don’t suck at?”

 

Everyone else in class giggled; Brother Redwood’s son Tommy, the Moss twins Alex and Carl, Shaun Bright, Curtis Stanfield, all of them. Jay flushed red, still with Lil’ Maye’s teats in hand. **_Don’t rise to it,_** he told himself. **_You’re not gonna win._** So, he ignored Billy, and kept on milking.

 

“Hey,” Billy Locke slapped his head. “I’m talking to you.”

 

It was a light smack at best but with Jay’s head the way it was, it may as well have been Walter Johnson swinging 42 inches of hickory into a porcelain vase. The boy seethed through his teeth like a hiss and squeezed Lil’ Maye’s teat too tight, causing the cow to moo and stomp its hooves, just narrowly missing his sneaker. Billy Locke grinned.

 

“You take a hit like a bitch, Mixon,” he said. “This ain’t the right place for you. You should be in the farmhouse stitching linens with Sister Garland and all the other girls. Am I right, boys?”

 

Jeers.

 

“You tell ‘em, Billy!” Said Shaun Bright.

 

Jay frowned. “Just… leave me alone.”

 

“Where’s the other weirdo?” Billy continued as if he hadn’t even heard Jay speak. “Where’s Parker? I get it. He thinks that just because he’s the Pastor’s son, he gets to skip out on chores. Am I right, Mixon? C’mon, where’s the big nut-hugger at?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

A dark frown passed Billy’s lips. It was a smile Jay was painfully familiar with – the angry one. Anytime Jay ever saw it, he didn’t walk away without a bruise or a black eye or a fat lip. Only a few seconds later Billy Locke rammed his boot into Jay’s bucket and split ten minutes worth of milk onto the floor. “Try again, faggot,” said Brother Locke’s son. The rest of the class went quiet – the idiots were bloodhounds when it came to the sniff of a fight. ‘What now?’ said their expressions.

 

Jay spat in Billy’s face.

 

A huge wad with a shit ton of phlegm in it, hit Billy Locke in the eye. The older boy recoiled, half-stunned it had even happened, before that inevitable flash of red and roar of anger. An enraged Billy Locke punched Jay so hard the stool skidded out from under his legs as he fell to the floor. He cried out as Billy Locke climbed on top of him and shoved his face into the spilt milk and hay and cow pie residue. “Fuck you!” Billy yelled. “Fuck you!”

 

“FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

 

The barn door swung open. Through the cheers of his classmates, Jay somehow overheard Brother Wissop’s yell of “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?” but it wasn’t Wissop’s thick, veiny right hand that took Billy Locke by the shoulder and yanked him off Jay – it was Pastor Evans. Billy hit the floor but shot back up, probably thinking it was Brother Wissop who threw him back (and was half ready to fight _him_ too) but he froze in his boots the second he saw the Pastor’s face. Billy Locke stopped. The cries of “fight!” stopped. All the boys got off their stools, folded their arms behind their backs, and dropped their chins to their chests in respect for him. Pastor Evans frowned at them all, surveying both their morning handiwork and their brief dalliance from it.

 

“Perhaps none of you heard me on Sunday when I called you all the last of your kind, the Fruit of God. Do any of you know what that means?” He turned to Jay. “Stand up, boy.”

 

The migraine was almost unbearable now. All the noise, all the hitting, Jay couldn’t even see through his tears, let alone think straight. He was only slightly aware of it when Pastor Evans’ broad hand took his own and pulled him up off the floor. “Come on, boy.” Said the Pastor. “Take a walk with me.”

 

Brother Wissop ordered all of them to get back to work and “fill up those buckets” as Jay, slowly piecing his mind back together, followed Pastor Evans through the barn door. Outside, the morning air was cool. It helped the boy think through the haze. He scrubbed his eyes dry. Only then, when the world outside of his migraines came back into focus, did he truly realize he was in the company of Pastor Evans.

 

The tallest man in Polk by a full human head over the next man; lithe yet barrel-chested with hands like meat hooks, and a long, hairless, oval face fixed with deep set wrinkles, plumes of crow’s feet and the narrow blonde-grey spike of a widow’s peak – the man who built Polk up and protected it from the chaos of the outside world -- _that_ was Pastor Evans, and ever since he was a kid, the Pastor frightened him. No one in town knew anyone taller, stronger, sterner, or more powerful. And yet the Pastor was as all pastors were, pious and devout, lifting his once misguided flock with grandiose paeans to God every Sunday. His grey-eyed gaze cut through your veneer into your inner ugliness like a scalpel. Unable to meet those eyes, Jay turned his away. He looked to the east across a half-mile of prairie, where the sunlight glistened off the glass shards and barbed wire lining the upper level of the car wall.

 

“I knew your father in school, did you know that?” Pastor Evans mused. He led Jay in a stroll down the dirt track that led from the cattle barn to the Wissop farmhouse. “Before God turned his fury on the world, that is. Danny Mixon was the smartest boy in class and there wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind that he was college material.”

 

Jay rubbed his cheek, already bruising purple. “Y-yes sir.”

 

“Somewhere inside that frail shell of his, I believe there exists a good, God-fearing heart. Not that he would ever admit it. So far be it from me to seem surprised when I see his son engaged in petty brawls with his classmates.”

 

 ** _I didn’t start that fight_** , thought Jay. **_Fucking Billy Locke is always the one who comes and starts it with me…_**

 

“Sister Kinnoch tells me that you excel in all your other classes. Math, History, Geography, Bible Studies. This is good. I wish my son was as studious as you, Jay.”

 

 ** _There’s only one book Parker’s ever liked_** , thought Jay, **_and it’s not a school book._**

 

“You and my son are quite close, aren’t you?”

 

Jay shivered. Nowadays his father’s influence spared him from Sunday service in the pastor’s chapel, but as a child he clearly recalled his Grandpa Mixon dragging him there by the scruff of his neck. And just as clearly, he recalled the Pastor’s baritone thundering of hellfire and brimstone, excoriating the vices that (in his mind) were the downfalls of the old world, citing such verses as Leviticus 18:22 as proof. _“San Francisco, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Reno, Atlantic City, New York, New Jersey, Portland, Austin and the like,”_ he’d once said, _“modern day Gomorrahs all, left to rot and rust into dust whence they came. As it should it be. Let those who defy God’s will be baptised in the Lake of Fire, never to return.”_

 

“He’s a friend,” said Jay. “We play stick ball now and again.”

 

Pastor Evans smiled that deep, cold smile of his. “’Now and again’, eh? Eh! Good. My son is restless. I think he needs a good friend to look out for him. Someone to keep him grounded and wedded to his responsibilities to this town. Are you that friend, Jay?”

 

The boy bit his lip, praying that conversation would end soon. “I-I-I could be, sir.”

 

“Good boy,” said the Pastor. He stopped. Jay stopped with him and looked up at the Pastor’s icy smile, willing his legs to keep him standing. “This is a good town, isn’t it, boy? It welcomed your father back with open arms when he escaped from DC. Why not reward that loyalty? Come to service tomorrow. Let the people see you again. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

**********

I hated Polk.

 

If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have admitted that it was probably one of the few relatively safe spaces left in America. But back then it may as well have been a prison, for the mind if not the body. A small town of 300 people about 10 miles south of Fort Collins, nestled between interstate 25 and a fertile strip of farmland; historically Polk wouldn’t have been much more than a pit stop in a greater person’s road trip; just a bar, a diner, a high school and gym, a church, a super mart, a grocer, a butcher and a bakery, a sheriff’s office and an abandoned factory, a football field, a local radio station serving three other towns across the county, and seventeen generations of local history. My father called it the _“stereotype I spent half my life running away from”._

 

During the Occupation, a group of militiamen blew up a federal office in Boulder and so the 4th Infantry Division in Fort Carson dispatched a battalion to root them out, garrisoning themselves around Polk High School: an unpopular sacrifice at the time. The then mayor often sent letters to the lieutenant colonel asking him to find more ‘suitable’ lodgings for his soldiers but they stayed put for the duration of the Occupation, until central command ordered a pull out to relieve a besieged company on the outskirts of Denver.

 

My father said it took just two months for bandits to start sniffing around.

 

They came in small waves of five or six at first, opportunistic roamers stealing fuel or food before they hijacked a car and moved on, until the 7th of December 2006, when a group of 30 armed militiamen calling themselves the Mountain Crows stormed the town and took it over for a whole week. _“They came in on Humvees wearing Kevlar and carrying carbines. I guess they must have snatched them from the old soldier’s garrison by the school,”_ was what my father had said of that night, _“Your Grandpa thought they were deserters from the army. But it didn’t matter. They wanted everything, our food, our clothes, our water, our medicine. That was when Polk realized that America wasn’t America anymore – and it had to defend itself from what was left.”_

 

Pastor Evans led the charge. He was ex-military himself and a veteran of Desert Storm. He and twelve others gathered together some hunting rifles from a nearby lodge and launched a fucking camisado against the Mountain Crows. They picked off the guards around the outskirts of town first, then freed fifteen girls that the bandits had bundled into a storehouse and raped, then charged the courthouse for a last-ditch shoot-out with their leader and his personal guard.

 

 _“After a lot of spilt blood and spent bullets the town was safe,”_ said my father. _“And Polk was in love with its saviour.”_

 

That was when Pastor Evans, the hulking born-again Christian who returned home from the Persian Gulf with the sole purpose of spreading the word of God, became the de-facto leader of the town. There may have been a pretence of democracy at first (holding public meetings at the town hall for the bigger decisions like a powwow with the elders) but over time people were more than happy to defer responsibility to him. First thing he did was to arm the strongest men in town with weapons recaptured from the bandits, give them combat training, and declare them the **Black Bandanas** , Polk’s town guard. Next, he ordered people to withdraw from their homes on the rim of Polk to its central townhouses and he abandoned the high school. _“He couldn’t risk it becoming another soldier or bandit base,”_ said my father, _“… so he stripped it of its remaining supplies and had it torched.”_

 

After that, his focus was fortification. He took the Black Bandanas on a scouting mission into the north to siphon gas from every untapped station they could find on the interstate (which by that time wasn’t very many) and procured over 350 cars, RVs, motor homes and bikes which they then drove back to town, creating a ring around Polk’s new, smaller perimeter. One by one they overturned the vehicles and sealed the gaps with cement to create a wall, lacing it with barbed wire and constructing watchtowers and sniper’s roosts at four points along the ring. The Black Bandanas kept it well guarded. Although bandits continued to raid us from time to time, few had ever gotten past the wall.

 

With defences and guards in place Pastor Evans’ focus became Polk itself. To him, the Rapture was nigh, and his job was to ensure that his people were square with God before He came to claim their souls. He went from door to door offering prayers, encouraging people to attend his sermons, swelling the ranks of his congregation until two thirds of the town made up its number. He convened with the old teachers from Polk High and convinced them to resume the studies of their young, but also train them in survival and defence. And so, kids like me, the last of our kind, became pawns in a godly man’s pet project. He had us all trained to shoot, to hunt, to farm, to build, and to survive – so that we could protect Polk to the very last man.

 

 _“There is no heaven,”_ my father told me. _“And I don’t like what Evans is teaching these people. But he’s keeping us safe, son. In a world like this, that’s what counts.”_

 

My father hated Pastor Evans almost as much as I did. He hated his religious bullshit just as much as I did. But he believed in Evans’ ability to keep Polk safe. I didn’t. I knew what was coming. Polk was a town living on borrowed time and one way or another the outside world was gonna pop the bubble.

 

I just didn’t realize _how_ soon.

 

**********

 

Jay came home from the Wissop Farm just a little after 3pm.

 

The morning breeze was gone which left a dry, chafing heat in its wake. Where Pastor Evans dropped him off, on the corner of Ellison’s butchery and the boneyard behind his tin roof chapel, there was a water pipe used mainly for washing off the horses that some of the Black Bandana rode on their supply runs. Although Jay wasn’t too far from home he had to have a drink. The sun was too hot, the air too dry, and his mind still too frazzled from Billy Locke’s beating; he needed it. Jay washed his hands first, scrubbing away the barn’s muck and grime, then cupped his hands beneath the pipe and drank it. It felt good to drink something cool.

 

After that he went home.

 

The Mixon house was a townhouse that he and his father Danny moved into after Pastor Evans built the car wall. It had everything they needed (except for running water) as well as a garage for the Mustang and a rear garden for their personal crops; mainly onions, tomatoes and potatoes. The adjacent house was vacant, so Pastor Evans ordered Danny to set up his clinic there (since the destruction of his original clinic during the Mountain Crow attack seven years ago). Jay crawled up the cobblestones and unlocked the door to the smell of freshly cooked chicken-and-potato soup mixed in with the thrum of an old beatbox and the lingering waft of cigarette smoke.

 

_In the attic lights_

_Voices scream_

_Nothing’s seen_

_Real’s a dream…_

 

“Jay?” His father called out from kitchen. “Come get some dinner!”

 

_Leaving the things that are real behind_

_Leaving the things that you love from mind_

_All of the things that you learned from fears_

_Nothing is left for the years_

 

“I’m fine, Pa.”

 

_Lights!_

_Voices scream_

_Nothing’s seen_

_Real’s a dream…_

 

“You sure?”

 

_Toys, toys, toys… in the Attic_

_Toys, toys, toys… in the Attic_

_Toys, toys, toys… in the Attic_

_Toys, toys, toys… in the Attic_

 

He didn’t want his father to see his bruised face. He’d put two and two together, call on Brother Locke’s door, then refuse to treat his gout any further unless his son got an apology – which he would – and then a week later Billy Locke would crank the dial on the beatings the second he had another opportunity. “Yeah. Save me some for later.”

 

His father assured him that he would. Jay sighed, making his way up the stairs to his room. His door was ajar. **_I thought I locked this_** , he thought. Warily, the boy slowly pushed it open and found a bombsite. The white and blue striped bed sheets were unmade, all his drawers were open, his coffee cup had overturned into a shit-coloured stain on his carpet, half his clothes were spilling out of his lacquered oak wardrobe, and his homework from Bible Studies class laid in scattered disarray over his desk. It was a like a typhoon had blown through the place.

 

“What the f-”

 

A hand clamped down around his mouth. Jay gasped. A second hand snatched his thin wrists behind his back and frog-marched him toward the bed. When a sneakered foot kicked his ankles, Jay buckled and fell face down into his pillow, groaning muffled groans through the fingers wrapped around his lips. A heaver body fell on top of him, belly to back, pinning him down, his attacker’s hips straddling his ass like a saddle and wrestling him back down the second he tried to buck. When Jay tried to look he got his head shoved back into the pillow. When Jay tried to wriggle free he took a slap to the neck. The extra weight alone now pinned Jay’s wrists behind his back, freeing his attacker’s other hand as it slowly and deliberately slipped down to the ass-shaped curve of his denims -- to promptly snatch a half-smoked pack of Newports out of the back pocket. Jay shivered as a pair of lips hovered over his ear and whispered…

 

“Holding out on me, Pee-Wee?”

 

Laughing like a lunatic, Parker rolled off Jay’s back and landed on the carpet. Jay launched up, furious, his heart thumping in his chest. “Jesus, Parker! That wasn’t funny!”

 

“Thought you didn’t believe in Jesus,” he said between giggles. “Hope my Dad ain’t rubbing off on you.”

 

“Fuck you,” he replied.

 

There was a bulge in Jay’s crotch as he climbed off his bed. Parker noticed it. “…Are you hard?”

 

“Parker, fuck off.”

 

The older boy grinned. “Is that your fantasy, Pee-Wee? A big fucking dude just breaking into your room one night and ripping your jeans off? Come on, is that what gets you going?”

 

 **You can be such a fucking dick sometimes** , thought Jay. But instead of saying it (or answering his stupid question) he picked up the clothes that Parker had thrown out of his wardrobe in search of his hidden stash of Newports – not that Jay blamed him. Between having a father who considered tobacco one of the many ‘vices’ of the old world and their increasing rarity in the new one, cigarettes were a precious commodity now. Just like prison. “Did you have to fuck up my whole room just for that?”

 

“If you don’t want me to fuck up your room, don’t hide your shit from me.”

 

Jay sighed. “Did my Dad let you in?”

 

“No.”

 

There was a rattling sound. Parker muttered “heads up” and threw a small bottle in the air. Jay caught it in his hands. It was Tylenol.

 

“For your headaches,” said Parker.

“Thanks. Did you trade for them?”

 

“No,” If you could break expressions down alchemically then Parker’s grin was one of equal parts defiance and stupidity. “Outside.”

 

There were lots of rules in Polk. Observe the Ten Commandments, respect the Brothers, protect the Sisters, pay heed to the needs of your neighbour, abstain from obscenity, etc. Sacrosanct above all was one – never go beyond the wall without permission. Only Pastor Evans and the Black Bandanas had that authority and they only exercised it when the need arose – such as a scouting mission or supply runs. The last person to sneak out was Sister Bright. Her father was dying, and she only went as far as the super mart in the abandoned part of town to fetch medicine for his pain. Pastor Evans was unmoved. Jay vividly remembered the day, two and a half years ago, when the pastor called everyone to the town’s square to witness her punishment. “ **Those who breech the wall from within or without endanger us all,”** he’d said that day, his voice smouldering over the silent crowd like a thunderhead. “ **Let no one place themselves in import over any one of God’s remaining children on Earth.”** He then had her flogged – twenty lashes and salt.

 

“It ain’t as scary as my dad makes out. There ain’t even much left out there except-” Parker paused. “What happened to your face?”

 

Jay covered his bruise, reflexively. “Nothing. I fell over.”

 

“Like fuck you did,” Parker climbed onto his feet. “Show me.”

 

 **Don’t get involved, Parker, you’ll just make it worse** , thought Jay. He didn’t want to show him. Insistent, Parker pulled Jay’s wrist out of the way so he could see it for himself. Jay watched the older boy’s scorching russet brown eyes scrutinize the swollen purple bruise. He flinched when Parker tried to touch it. “Don’t. It still hurts.”

 

Parker frowned. “Who did that?”

 

“It doesn’t matter.”

 

Parker still had Jay’s wrist in his hand. His grip tightened. “Tell me.”

 

 **It doesn’t matter!** “…Billy Locke.”

 

Parker sneered. He probably knew already without even asking – but hearing the name made it real. It was no secret in town that Billy Locke hated both Parker and Jay. It all started two years ago when Danny Mixon’s clinic went dry on dressings, morphine and painkillers. Pastor Evans called for a supply run into a hospital on the outskirts of Fort Collins and sent out fifteen Black Bandanas, led by Billy’s father, Brother Locke, to replenish their medical supplies. But when the team got there they found a holed-up pocket of well-armed bandits and the run went south. Only Brother Locke and two other Bandanas survived the shootout -- with Locke’s right leg blown to pieces by one of their sawed offs. When they returned home to Polk his leg was already gangrenous. Danny had no choice but to amputate.

 

His son Billy had hated them all ever since. But since Pastor Evans was the leader (thus untouchable) and Danny Mixon was the only doctor in town (thus equally untouchable) the only people he could take his anger out on were their sons.

 

“Don’t do anything,” He didn’t say it for Billy’s sake but Parker’s. Jay was the only one on earth who knew what Parker was capable of when he lost his temper. Jay was the only one who’d seen first-hand the shadows and urges that danced around unbidden in the older boy’s mind – and if anyone else found out it would ruin them.

 

“I’m so fucking tired of that cunt,” Parker muttered. “We should’ve taken care of him a long time ago.”

 

They’d joked about killing him for months (when Parker suggested drowning him in a well Jay suggested slitting his wrists and making it look like a suicide) but only ever half seriously. It was still a small town and bodies were hard to Houdini. But who would ever think it of the pastor’s son?

 

“Everyone in this piece of shit town is a fucking cunt,” Parker said. “Billy Locke’s a fucking cunt. His cripple dad is a fucking cunt. My bible-thumping Dad is a fucking cunt. Everywhere I go, all I see is a fucking cunt.”

 

Jay chuckled, swallowing a Tylenol. His headaches would get better soon. “Is there anyone who isn’t a cunt?”

 

“You and me,” he spat. “Fuck everyone else.”

 

Only then did Jay notice something unusual – that Parker had his Walkman with him. He’d buckled it to his belt and hung the headphones from his sun-tanned nape. Parker’s Walkman was one of only two material possessions that the older boy wouldn’t share with anyone, even Jay, and he almost never took it out of his house. It was almost surreal to see him with it. Ever more so when Parker pointed to the bed and told Jay to sit down. He took a seat and glared at Parker as though he’d grown a second head when the older boy placed the headphones around his ears and pressed play.

 

“Are you feeling sick?” Joked Jay.

 

Parker shushed him. “Just listen.”

 

 _Ask yourselves something, my children._ It was a black woman’s voice, late forties maybe, but professional, like Danny’s. It was husky but opulent with a Creole tilt and she spoke with what Jay Mixon could only describe as a sort of belaboured yet earnest passion. _It’s quarter to twelve and you’re going to die at midnight._ _How are you spending those last fifteen minutes? Ask yourselves that. I know some of y’all think you can try to live like the old world is coming back. It won’t. And be grateful that it won’t. In the old world, they told us how to live, what to read, who to fuck, when to think. That world was bankrupt. It strangled itself to death on its own antiquated sense of morality. But very soon, we’ll all be dead too. We’re all just dying cinders now, folks, those precious last sparks of a crumbled pyre. So, I say we enjoy what’s left of our light while it lasts. I say we owe it to ourselves to live what’s left of our lives freely. No rules, no judgements, no commandments, no grand overseers and dictators. I have people with me who feel the same. We’re going south, past the Mexican border. We have land there. Acres and acres and acres of it. Somewhere we can live free. If there’s anyone out there, anyone left who shares our beliefs, come join us. Come south with us and help us build a_ true _land of the free. We’re waiting. This is Octavia Wilkes, signing off. Good night._

 

The cassette stopped.

 

Jay frowned. “A cult?”

 

“It ain’t a cult,” Parker snatched his headphones back. “I found the frequency when I was tuning my Dad’s radio equipment. It was just there for day and then it was gone. How random is that?” He bit his thumb. “I think we were _meant_ to hear this.”

 

“So… you wanna go to Mexico?”

 

“It’s better than this shithole! Who could stop us if we really wanted to?”

 

 **Your dad** , thought Jay. “It’s a pipe dream. You don’t even know how old that message is. Let it go.”

 

Something flickered in Parker’s eye then. A brief emotion. Hurt. But it was just a flicker, a flicker that disappeared before Jay could spot it. Instead it became something else, a churlish glint of angry humour. “You’re a joy fucker,” he replied. “You fuck the joy out of everything.”

 

Sighing, Parker put his Walkman aside and reclined into Jay’s bed. The younger boy watched the older one lower his head to the pillow, kick off his beaten down sneakers, then slipped two Newports between his lips and lit them up with a US ARMY embossed silver zippo.

 

“Grandpa used to call these ‘nigger smokes’,” Jay laid down next to him and took one. “Back before they stopped making them.”

 

Parker said nothing. He exhaled a plume of smoke and stared intently at the little sparks of orange light at the tip of the ash.

 

“You said you went outside,” said Jay. “…Did you burn anything?”

 

He took another puff. Long and drawn out, with a deep exhale of mentholated smoke. Parker watched the fumes waft into the air with an intensity that something so simple as cigarette smoke didn’t deserve. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want answers.”

 

But he did want the answers.

 

Jay wanted anything and _everything_ Parker had to offer of himself. That’s all Jay had ever wanted ever since they were 12 years old. Parker Evans was all of Jay’s ‘wants’ wrapped up into a person. He was lean and muscled, the ridges and contours of his chest and stomach sculpted out of the rigorous drills and training his father Pastor Evans submitted him to. His hair was a kinky tarmac-black tangle of curls and whorls, flowering over his ears and forehead like bangs. His eyes were his mother’s, molten pools of brown oil, brown like the smatter of freckles over his sharp, narrow nose and bright like the twinkle of his dark grin. Colorado was in the grip of a heat wave and hours of training in the hot sun had turned Parker’s skin a faint copper shade that suited him. He was half-Greek on his mother’s side and it told in the way his flesh absorbed the sun’s rays. If it were up to Jay Mixon he would have spent the rest of his days kissing, licking, sucking and swallowing every inch of that body like ice cream. Parker possessed a kind of dirty, smouldering male beauty that had infatuated Jay for as long as he could remember.

 

He couldn’t help it.

 

As he watched Parker watch his own smoke plumes like a child at a playmobile, Jay’s cock stiffened out in his denims. He watched the older boy’s lips purse and parse nicotine like a beckoning call and found himself leaning in to kiss him.

 

“Don’t,” said Parker, recoiling. “You know I don’t like that.”

 

“What _do_ you like?”

 

There was coffee cup on the bedside table. Parker snuffed his cigarette out inside it, put his hands around Jay’s shoulders, and pushed him down to the bulge in his crotch. Horny and anxious, Jay bit his lip, and carefully unbuckled Parker’s belt, unzipped his shaggy grey pants, pulled down his B&W polka dotted boxers, and watched with drunk fascination as a swollen seven and half inch cock sprung free – and wrapped his warm mouth around it.

 

**********

 

Where was I?

 

Let’s see. I’ve briefed you on this dying world and outlined how it got there, then I threw some light on the simpering, theocratic little nook of land where my existence ultimately came into being. Now I suppose it’s time to talk about him.

 

Parker Evans.

 

He’s the only boy I’ve ever loved. I can say that without flinching. He is my moon and my sun, as well as the black hole ready suck everything into oblivion. He’s a flame. He’s the flame. The flame that enchants you, that warms you, that illuminates the way for you – the one you can’t help but want to play with. But flames burn, no matter how easily you might forget it, no matter how much their pretty dance disguises it.

 

Where did it all start, I wonder?

 

Hard to say, really. I suppose it all started in 2007, when I was ten and Parker was eleven, and after Pastor Evans built the car wall. The Pastor held a meet in the town hall where everyone gathered to discuss Polk’s future. I remember him telling them that us kids _were_ Polk’s future, and that to ensure our souls as representatives of the town, we had to be baptised – not in mere water but in the waters of God’s truth. What did this mean? It meant Adam’s Cradle, a special teenage creche built for us out of the guts of an old nuclear bunker. Pastor Evans told our parents that to prepare their children for the coming of the rapture, he would sequester us inside this creche and re-educate us in the Word of God. _The last of Polk will be its best_ , as he put it. Some objected, especially my father, but in the end, he took everyone under the age of 15 below the earth. The Pastor called it re-education. Truly? It was just his attempt at brainwashing us.

For two years they kept us beneath the earth and indoctrinated us in the Pastor’s faith. Six women, school teachers in the old world, took charge of our teaching and care. They forbade us from eating pork and shellfish; we ate only porridge and potatoes and fish. We drank only water. They separated the boys from the girls to teach us our proper roles in life: he as the protector, she as the nurturer. They taught us that America was once God’s shining capital on earth until it condemned itself by lapsing into evil; modern man partaking of licentiousness and greed, drugs and sodomy, heathen negro music and atheism and feminism. They taught us to reject modernity and devote ourselves to God and thus be born again. When we emerged from Adam’s Cradle, two years later, Pastor Evans proclaimed all 32 of us as the Last Fruit of God – and called upon the entire town to swear a holy commitment to our safety. They did. For the next four years they treated we Fruit of God as curious, precious porcelain dolls – not to be touched lest we break. And all of Polk was happy to comply because all of Polk was now under the Pastor’s thumb. In a world of 300 adults and only 32 children, we children only had ourselves to turn to.

 

But no one ever liked me.

 

I wasn’t like the other boys. The Pastor’s brainwashing didn’t work on me. Somehow, I was still the same kid I was before the Pastor took us all underground – and that made me the ‘weirdo’. And I wasn’t strong like Billy Locke. I wasn’t fast like Tommy Redwood, or super daring like the Moss twins, or a keen shooter like Shaun Bright, or great with horses like Curtis Stanfield. I was just the ‘clever’ one. And there isn’t much call for cleverness in a theocracy. But there was another kid in our group that didn’t quite fit. The Pastor’s son.

 

Parker was stronger than Billy, almost as fast as Tommy, and WAY more daring than the Moss twins. What Shaun had over him in target practice he made up for in his hand-to-hand, and with the right saddle he could ride just as good as Curtis. But no one liked him either. They couldn’t confide in him for the same reason they couldn’t pick on him -- because he was the Pastor’s son -- so they just left him alone. Fear of the father made the son a pariah -- and that was how we found each other, two stragglers behind the herd.

 

We played together when the others wouldn’t play with us. We looked out for each other when the adults were too scared to talk to us. He taught me how to shoot and fish, I let him sleep in my room when his dad beat him. We did everything we could together. Playing, drinking, eating, shooting, studying, cleaning, drying, frying, milking, shearing, plucking, skinning, tanning, etc. Grandpa used to say that we were closer than brothers. And that was how it was for us. Parker was my best friend.

 

But then something changed one day. Parker got cold. Distant. Not suddenly but over time. He came to my house less often, stopped sharing books with me, stopped helping me when we went hunting, he just… ebbed away. When you’re that young and something so important gets taken away like that, your mind isn’t mature enough to manage that stress or even understand what it’s really going through. That was the first time I can recall crying myself to sleep, wondering why and when my best friend started hating me.

 

And then it happened.

 

It was late, 12 or maybe 1am in the morning, and a knock rattled my window. I woke up. It was Parker, shivering in a jeans jacket and cargo shorts. September of 2009, I believe, with a fast encroaching winter. I opened the window and let him in. Didn’t ask him why he was ignoring me, didn’t tell him how much he was hurting me, I just let him in and asked him if he wanted some of my daddy’s cocoa. He had a wicked shiner, a gift from his father’s knuckles no doubt, but we didn’t talk about it. He only said “no” to the cocoa and asked if they could just “go to bed” like the old days. Even then, after what he did, it didn’t occur to me to question him – or why. I didn’t care. My best friend needed me again. Nothing else mattered. So, I crawled back into my bed and opened the sheets for him. Parker, smiling, joined me. He kept to his side, I kept to mine. We weren’t toddlers anymore, after all. We couldn’t cuddle each other to sleep like we used to. We were already undergoing the bodily changes my father called puberty (Parker’s transition a little faster than mine of course). Things were different now. They were different in a way I didn’t comprehend at the time, but in hindsight, they couldn’t have been any clearer.

 

I slept only a little bit that night. I got three, maybe four hours rest. I got none after Parker joined me. If he hadn’t had his back to me I might’ve realized he couldn’t sleep either. Maybe half an hour after that I drifted off (or at least I was close to it). And then, half-awake and half-asleep, my body jerked with the bed as the weight on it shifted. This rolled me onto my back and then I felt a soft weight depress my chest. I heard something unzip, smelt an odour I now know to be pre-cum, and then, only then, did I open my eyes.

 

It was Parker’s cock. Hard, stiff, thin and veiny. I knew a cock when I saw one because for months up until that night I was experimenting with my own (all the Pastor’s pablum about the sinfulness of self-pleasure was wasted on me) even though I hadn’t cum yet. But I’d never seen someone else’s cock before. And I remember stupidly thinking **why’s it so big?** I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand anything yet.

 

That was why I didn’t see it coming.

 

He pinched my nose, hard, nothing playful about it. I couldn’t breathe. And the second I opened my lips for a mouthful of air, he thrust his cock straight through them. It wasn’t a blowjob. I wasn’t in the driver’s seat. My throat was a warm wet hole and he fucked it. With one fucking plunge, he went so deep his fucking nut sack slapped me on my chin, and he grabbed my head with both his hands and he groaned this huge, guttural, bestial cry in the darkness. I heard him whisper my name to himself and curse. I only recall my first reaction as… spluttering, gasping for life like a hooked trout; I must have been bug-eyed as all hell. I don’t think I was thinking. Looking back on it now, I think my mind did its best to just keep up with it all. I don’t even remember how long it lasted. Could have been two minutes, could have been an hour (although it was probably closer to the former). All I really remember after that was confusion and tears.

 

The second he pulled his cock out of my mouth I ran into my bathroom and threw up a mixture of semen, cocoa, chicken noodle soup and bile into the toilet bowl. I wept, caught my breath, and went back to my bedroom, not knowing if Parker was still my friend anymore. But he was already asleep, like nothing had happened. And I was lost. And scared. And I couldn’t go back into bed with him, so I slept on the couch downstairs and when I woke up the following morning he was gone.

 

After that, even though we shared all the same classes and chores, we didn’t talk to each other for two long months. Those two months were the loneliest of my whole life. We barely looked each other in the eye, and when we did, Parker scrammed. I stopped eating (and dropped what felt like half my weight). Getting up in the morning was like resurrecting myself from the dead. And there was no one to talk to. Under Pastor Evans’ law the penalty for sodomites was death by exile. Sometimes I thought about talking to my father and a few times I got close – but I always backed out because I knew he wouldn’t understand. How could he? And how could I explain something to him that I barely understood myself?

 

I missed Parker.

 

He frightened me, he hurt me, but I still wanted to be around him. And when he stopped talking to me after that night it finally hit me how much I needed him. And I couldn’t stop thinking about what he did to me. I could be in the middle of shooting practice out in the fields behind the Wissop Ranch, loading a fresh clip into a 9mm, and my mind would suddenly explode with recollections of that swollen cock jutting back and forth between my lips. I kept seeing it and seeing it and seeing it until it stopped scaring me. It was like my brain just rewired itself and turned black to white. Everything changed. Some nights I fell asleep with tears in my eyes and my hand down my briefs, whispering his name… and remembering. Nightmares of my rape became wet dreams, fear became desire, hatred became longing. I needed him again. And I wanted him back.

 

And so, on the night of November 3rd, 2009, I paid him a visit.

 

Looking back on it now, it was a crazy risk. Climbing up the liana-strewn latticework of the two-storey Evans house and shimmying onto the ledge, wrenching open his bedroom window like a fucking burglar. Parker snuck into my room all the time, but I’d never had the courage to sneak into his – not until that night. I found him spread out over the bunk of a remarkably well-kept room, naked from the boxers up, the moonlight burnishing those early contours of muscle he’d grow into so well. He snored like an ox. Just for a moment I stopped, and I watched him. I wondered why I’d ever let it get to the point where he scared me. I wondered if I’d ever get back the time we’d wasted not talking to each other. I wondered if he wanted me just as much as I was starting to want him. The pleasure he took from me, I wanted to give to him freely. I wanted to do things to him his father would kill me for.

 

Something took over me.

 

I knelt by his bedside, hooked my thumbs beneath the band of his boxers and pulled them down. His cock was soft, slung to the left over his growing tuff of coal-coloured pubic hair. The sudden chill woke him up. _“J-Jay…?”_ he mumbled. _“Jay, what the fuck…?”_ He moved to cover himself. _“Don’t,”_ I said. _“Let me do it, I want to. I’ll do anything. Just don’t ignore me anymore.”_

 

He was already getting hard again. _“You sure?”_

 

I was. And I swallowed his cock to prove it.

 

That was how it started. That was how we became something closer than friends or brothers. Blood meant nothing to us. Friendship was a fair-weather concept that couldn’t capture our bond. We were the only ones we had in a world where we were the last of our kind. Nothing could keep us apart. I was the only one who saw Parker for Parker, the only moth his flame couldn’t incinerate. No one knew or needed him like I did. No one deserved him the way I did. No one could give him what I could. No one could stomach what I could. Only I knew the truth. Parker wasn’t just the flame, he was the darkness around it and the oxygen it fed on. He was the evil his father was so desperate to defeat – and only I could love him for it.

 

**********

 

Parker was tired that night. He fell asleep almost as soon as he blew his wad and didn’t even watch Jay swallow it (which, normally, he was wont to – always with a wry, possessive grin). Although disappointed, the younger boy didn’t much show it. Instead he allowed himself a sneaky pleasure. Jay rested his head atop Parker’s lightly cinnamon-fuzzed chest and luxuriated in his slumbering personhood; his glacial heartbeat and light snore; the pre-scent of nicotine and Coors Light on his breath, the post-scent of spent semen and dry sweat clinging to his body. Jay fell asleep to those things. In his contentment, he imagined what it would be like if he never woke up.

 

But eventually he did.

 

Hours later, Jay awoke into a chill. The window was ajar, the now cold Coloradan air crisp and biting; his sheets balled up at the other end of the bed. And Parker was gone. Jay looked around but found only the midnight shadows of his furniture keeping him company. **His backpack’s still here** , thought Jay. **So, he didn’t go home.** Which wouldn’t have been like him. Parker almost never went home without telling Jay first. Curious (and concerned) Jay slid out of his bed into a pair of black denims and one of his father’s old Def Leppard t-shirts, laced up his sneakers, then went looking for his friend throughout the house. But he couldn’t find him, not in the kitchen nor the bathroom nor the lounge. Where was he?

 

 **Unless…** a cold thought crept into his mind. Jay quietly scrambled up the stairs and back into his bedroom (wary of waking his father). **He did have that look in his eye…** Shutting the door behind him, Jay went to his desk, unzipped Parker’s backpack, and withdrew something from it, something more precious to him than even his Walkman. A 300-page ledger encased in hardback leather, beaten and worn down, its pages browning at the edges where Parker’s sooty fingers turned them. He called it the _Cook Book_ and he didn’t share its secrets with anyone, not even with Jay. But (and not for the first time) Jay read it anyway, jumping straight to the _list_.

 

_~~The East barn~~ _ _. ~~D’alonzo’s Mill~~. ~~My Dad’s car~~. ~~Mr. Sparkles~~. ~~The treehouse~~. ~~The neighbour’s treehouse~~. _

 

The names were all crossed off, and none of them had been there the last time Jay read it, all except one.

 

_Billy Locke’s Old House._

 

 **He’s gone outside!** Jay was on his feet before he even realized it, running down the stairs and around the corner into the tiled kitchen then out through the iron barred back door to the yard. Where there was a yard post to which they chained their bikes, there was only Jay’s Schwinn. Parker’s Litespeed was gone. A wheel-shaped trail led out of his yard by its rear gate and ran down the footpath carving up the allotment gardens between the neighbouring townhouses, before cornering into the main street. **What the fuck are you doing, Parker?** Thought Jay as he unchained his bike and followed the trail.

 

All of Polk, aside from a scant few Black Bandanas manning the wall and patrolling the streets, was asleep. Although there was no curfew under Pastor Evans’ rule, his men exercised the right to question the Fruit of God when they were out late at night (“for their own protection”, it might have been said) and escort them back to their homes if caught without a valid reason. Jay kept himself mindful of this when he saw a Black Bandana on patrol up ahead, and ducked behind an abandoned mailbox for cover. When the coast was clear he cycled his way up the lane from the townhouses and across the empty square, pass the Black Bandana’s barracks and the central watchtower towards the stickball field on the northern part of town, where the shorn grass met the main road into town and converged with the car wall via the main gate. Parker’s trail led off road across the pitch to a dip in the surface, a trench between two knolls passing for a dugout, where the older boy’s Litespeed sat abandoned.

 

 **Why did he leave his bike…?** As he asked himself this, a beam of light passed around the edge of the knoll, moving in a concentric circles and around again. One glance behind him and he spotted two Black Bandanas manning the central watchtower, flashing their torches at the fields in search of intruders. Mindful of them, Jay stashed his bike with Parker’s and escaped down the dugout to a tall patch of grass that he carefully made his way through, crawling on his belly and his elbows until the beams of light couldn’t reach him. Where they met their extent, the wall began.

 

The wall was an ugly, imposing thing. Nearly three yards high, a twisted mish-mash of cars, motorbikes, vans, RVs and trucks all collided together and sealed up at the gaps with cement, plywood and scrap metal. Spools of barbed wire and shards of broken glass lined the top, making it difficult to scale. But somehow, someway, Parker found a weakness. A hole. The tall grass hid it well, and it was only small enough for teenagers to fit through, but a hole was a hole.

 

Jay crawled through it.

 

The outside world was a living bogeyman to those whom Pastor Evans called the Fruit of God. He taught them to fear anything and everything that originated from beyond the wall because in his mind it frothed with the sins responsible for spawning the Global Fertility Crisis, and it could easily infect them if they weren’t careful. He ensured that that lesson burrowed its way into the brains of his wards. Maybe that was why kids like Billy Locke were so comfortable in Polk (easy to crown yourself king when someone reduces your world to a pond) but for kids like Parker, the wall was a noose, slowly strangling you. Jay didn’t blame Parker for wanting to escape. Not at all.

 

Jay felt a sharp pain along his thigh crawling through the tunnel beneath the wall, he but didn’t notice it until he emerged on the other side. Instead he climbed up from his knees and, for the first time in his life, beheld the outside world from the wrong side of the wall. It was just the other half of Polk; townhouses, fields, barns and stables, paved roads becoming dirt tracks; but derelict. It was like a reflection in a cracked mirror, similar but broken. Trash wafted across the streets. Homesteads stripped of all their precious possessions rotted from the rafters down and weeds sprouted from gaps in the tarmac. His blood dripped on it.

 

 **What the…?** On his way through the tunnel something sharp had slice open his denims from knee to thigh, and a bloody gash dripped red. **Fuck!** The cut wasn’t deep but it was painful, hard to walk on. He considered (for a moment) turning back home but he knew that he couldn’t go back without Parker.

 

 **12:20am** , Jay reflected, checking his watch. Sun up was a long way away, and the guards on the nearest watchtower were already switching shifts. There hadn’t been a bandit attack in months and they were getting lazy, even Jay knew that. They wouldn’t be hard to sneak past whilst it was still dark. So, keeping to the shadows of abandoned cars and dumpsters arrayed around the central road into the main gate, Jay hobbled off into the empty, broken half of the town in search of his friend. He wasn’t hard to find. The night air was cold and crisp – easily carrying the scent of smoke. Jay followed that smell down a row of crumbling houses to a turn off by the old Corner Mart (the one his Dad used to work at when he was a kid). It was a narrow side street caught between the Mart and a diner that ended in a kind of cul-de-sac at the back wall of a two-storey warehouse. There was a fire ladder suspended from the roof. When Jay looked up he saw the smoke plume looming over it. **Why does he like heights so much?**

 

Reluctantly, and gingerly, Jay went up the ladder, one foot after the other, until he reached the top, where the smoke clouds rolled overhead, and the snapping flames lashed at the air. And that was where he found Parker – a silent teenage buddha sat at the edge of the rooftop, legs folded beneath him, palms pressed into his lap -- watching a townhouse burn to ash across the street. Billy Locke’s old house. Parker gazed upon the spectacle with wide-eyed madness, entranced into delirium. Like some retarded child smashing insects with a rock, he marvelled at his handiwork like it was the axis of a universe, even as the soot blackened his face and the flames climbed high enough to spot from the watchtowers at the wall. He didn’t care. When Parker burned things, he went into a different space and time, into a higher dimension where Jay and all the rest of humanity couldn’t follow. But Jay still had the power to bring him back.

 

“Parker,” Said Jay. “Parker, it’s me. We gotta go. Parker!”

 

“…Jay…?” It took him a moment. Eventually though, the older boy looked back over his shoulder with dilated eyes and a crooked smile. It was as clear a face of insanity as Jay would ever see – right before he snapped out of it and returned to this world, the true world, the world of shit.

 

**********

 

Parker told me it first started in Adam’s Cradle, six years ago.

 

 _“It was my ninth birthday,”_ he’d said, in one of those rare nights he was willing to talk to me about his feuerlust. _“Remember when my Dad came in the bunker with a cake? I asked him about my Mom and he told me not to worry, I would see her when I was ready.”_

 

What he didn’t know then, what we’d only find out once we left Pastor Evans’ creche-like prison, was that his mother, Sister Christabella Evans, was dead. It was a random day for her, they said. That day she didn’t do anything she didn’t normally do – the same routine all of Polk’s wives maintained -- making breakfast, washing linens, tending the garden, fetching water, collecting her daily rations, etc. She ended that day with a cocktail of Tylenol, co-codamol and aspirin.

 

No one was willing to say it but most people in town knew why – she was tired of her husband’s fists. Whenever my father spoke to me about Sister Evans, it was always with a sad look in his eye; him shaking his head and recalling all the times he’d treated her fractured ribs and black eyes. Out of respect for his new wife, Sister Mary-Elizabeth Anderson-Evans, and out of fear of the Pastor, the town didn’t talk about her much those days.

 

The fires started shortly after Parker’s ninth birthday.

 

It was small things at first. Burnt toys in the sink or a bunch of drawings torched inside a waste bin. Those little mysteries popped up every few days or so. The sisters found it odd and disturbing but didn’t seem to take it too seriously at first – not until Sister Johnson’s room went up in flames. I remember that night so well. We were all sleeping in our cots when Pastor Evans roared “FIRE!” and woke us all. He ordered us to join hands so he could take us from the sleeping room to the lunch room (where it was safe). We obeyed. But the sister’s rooms weren’t far from ours, so we saw the fire on the way out – and what a fucking sight. Tongues of flame lashing out of the doorway, thick black smoke rolling out along the low ceiling, blackened rubble spat across the threshold. It was the first truly scary thing I ever saw, and I was holding Parker’s hand at the time, so I just looked at him to make sure he was okay.

 

That look in his eye…

 

Infatuation wears itself noticeably on a human face. Parker, a boy of nine at the time, gazed into those flames with a passion that verged on the primal, some distinct urge tracing its way back in time to a cave-dwelling past where flint tools made the magical sparks that cooked our food and kept us warm and lit our way. His fixation with the flames was something ancient and terrible. Me being eight years old at the time I couldn’t wrap my head around it yet – but I was smart enough to know that Parker was responsible.

 

When Pastor Evans and the sisters got the fire under control with some old extinguishers, they inspected the room and found a pack of Newports underneath Sister Johnson’s bed. Cigarettes were forbidden in the Cradle (for obvious reasons – smoking wasn’t such a hot idea in a converted nuclear bunker). Although she denied it, the consensus was she that she (somehow) was responsible and she was stripped of her duties in the creche. When the Fruit of God were released from Adam’s Cradle and I was reintroduced to my father, one of the first things I asked him was – “where is Sister Johnson?” He didn’t end up telling me the truth until I was a bit older – that Pastor Evans had had her tried in the courthouse. The sentence was thirty lashes and salt then execution by exile – and no one had seen her since.

 

The fires continued outside of Adam’s Cradle.

 

They began, in large scale, the day Pastor Evans took his son to his mother’s grave. That day ended with the night that the old library went up in smoke. Soon after that, someone threw a lit match into the old mail box in front of Brother and Sister Locke’s new townhouse. After that, the message board by Pastor Evans’ chapel. A telephone pole here, an outhouse there – every three weeks to a month (but never more than that) for almost six years, creating a feeding ground for rumours amongst us Fruit of God -- rumours of an evil creature named ‘Pumpkinhead’ who rose from the depths of hell to terrorise Polk with his sinful pyromancy. The adults weren’t as stupid as we were – they knew there was an arsonist, a mortal arsonist; yet none of them were smart enough to connect the dots. And I wasn’t willing to rat out my best friend.

 

In the back of my mind I always knew it was him. I couldn’t prove it, but I knew it. Because I _knew_ him. You’d find too many empty matchboxes in the garden near his home, or spent Zippos and kindling hoarded in his attic with his father’s old radio gear. To me the only mystery was how his father couldn’t piece it together. Then one night, maybe two or three weeks prior to night he first force fed me his cock, curiosity got the better of me. When Parker was passed out from the vodka he’d stolen from his father’s hidden stash beneath the chapel cellar, I went through his backpack, the one he wouldn’t let me touch. That was when I found his ‘Cook Book’.

 

The way my father first describes reading ‘Catcher in the Rye’, I’m sure that’s how I felt.

 

The Cook Book was a ledger of Parker Evans’ pyromania. Inside it he kept clippings of old newspaper reports of local fires in Denver and Boulder, lists of different things around town he’d burned (some I knew of, some I didn’t) and lists of things he’d like to burn. In one passage, he went into tremendously misspelled detail about burning Sunflower, his step-mom’s pet tabby cat; how it screamed and squealed when he set its tail on fire, how it chased itself around until it put the fire out -- forcing Parker to hold it down and put a lighter to its neck. He described the charring of the fur and the blackening of its flesh, the seizing up of its ligaments in death, the salt taste in the air, everything about it. That was when I understood the depths of the darkness that existed in Parker Evans’ heart.

 

But I still wanted _my_ place there.

 

It should have horrified me. He should have disgusted me. In the old world, they locked people like him away in mental asylums, didn’t they? Shouldn’t I have told my father or Pastor Evans? If he was willing to watch and document his immolation of a cat how long before his ‘experiments’ graduated to human test subjects? But I didn’t care. I didn’t want to care.

 

…No.

 

That’s not true.

 

I _did_ care. Parker’s darkness was his darkness. And I wanted _him_ , everything and anything, mind and body. He was not like other people, but… ‘person-like’. He was different, a being from a lower plane approximating humanity as best as he could. And I loved him for it.

 

He wouldn’t admit the truth to me for another year, on some random night when Parker snuck into my room with another black eye and I cheered him up the way I always did, unzipping him and sucking him dry. We fell asleep together, like we tended to. And then…?

 

 _“Pee-Wee?”_ he said.

 

_“Yeah?”_

 

He paused. _“I’m Pumpkinhead.”_

 

**********

 


	2. Polk, Part 2

“Not so bad, is it, Pee-Wee?”

 

There was a rusty faucet in a nearby car lot that still had some water running. Parker ran a thin trickle to scrub his face and hair clean of the soot. Jay watched him from the shadows of Brother Daniels’ broken-windowed old butchery. The moonlight was strong enough to burnish the sparkles of water rolling off Parker’s freckled neck.

 

Ignoring the stiffness in his pants, Jay agreed. “No, not really. It’s kind of cool actually.”

 

“My Dad’s always had a mouthful of shit,” Parker gargled some water and spat out black phlegm. “And those fucking dummies in town just eat it up. We’re not sheep like them, Jay.”

 

There was a rag in Parker’s back pocket. He wet it, tossed it to Jay, and told him to wipe the ash from his face too. If the smoke of the blaze rose high enough to spot from the watchtowers then the Black Bandanas almost certainly knew about it, but since they hadn’t come out to investigate, Parker reasoned that they would dismiss it as a forest fire and leave it be. Still, it didn’t help to go home caked in evidence. Years and years of unstopped fire-setting had made an escape artist of old _Pumpkinhead_.

 

“You know what Octavia Wilkes says?” Parker grinned. “She says _‘if we can’t share what’s left of the new world with the people who still want to live in the old one, then leave them behind’_. You think she’s wrong?”

 

Jay sighed. “You’re still thinking about Mexico?”

 

“Come on! You know she’s right! All of us are gonna be dead soon and after that there’s nothing. Nothing! No hell, no heaven, just nothing. You wanna spend the rest of our lives pretending to be good Christian boys doing chores and going to church on Sunday? We’re probably the only ones left in this whole fucking world still doing that! Fuck Polk. And fuck my father. Let’s go to Mexico, Jay. Me and you.”

 

**What about my Dad?** Jay thought. He didn’t dare say it out loud lest Parker call him a pussy. But the thought remained. What about Danny Mixon? Jay didn’t hate Danny the way Parker hated Pastor Evans. For a time, he did; when Pastor Evans sequestered all of Polk’s remaining children inside Adam’s Cradle. A sense of betrayal and abandonment ran like a nerve through Jay’s mind back then. But once he and the other Fruit of God returned to town to begin their schooling and chores, Danny Mixon made it his business to ensure that his son had a secondary (and truer) education in the shadow of the first. Sister Kinnoch taught him that God created the world in seven days, but his father taught him that the universe came into existence via a distant event known as the Big Bang.

 

His father taught him evolution, and that human history began not with the Garden of Eden but with a dispersal of Palaeolithic peoples from Africa thousands of years ago, that they developed stone tools and controlled fire until a revolution to place, one from hunter-gatherer to agricultural subsistence. Villages formed and warred and traded with one another upon the domestication of horses and the invention of the wheel, until certain villages became towns and certain towns became cities and certain cities became civilizations with the temperance of metals – first of copper then of iron. As the pharaohs raised pyramids in Egypt, Akkad split into Assyria and Babylon and would war for centuries until their successors the Persians built a vast empire and clashed with Greece. The ambitious project of a great Macedonian king would fail, succeeded in spirit only by a city-state turned empire known as Rome, Rome that spread the roads of civilization from Britannia to the Levant, Rome that collapsed under the weight of its own greatness and split in two, east and west. As east became Byzantium and the west fell to the Germanic tribes, Christianity began to spread. The Merovingians united the Franks until usurpation by the Carolingians, foremost of all Charlemagne, who took resurrected the ambition of Rome in the west as the Vikings ranged as far as the Americas and the Umayyads overran Hispania. Christianized kings ruled over the feudal lords who ruled over the manorial poor who prayed to the same God that begat them their lowly state. Christendom failed to retain the Holy Land but reconquered Spain; Genoa and Venice and Pisa began the prototypical web-work of international trade even as famine and Black Death ran wild across Europe. But time delivered an aesthetic outburst of creativity, the renaissance, that spread from Italy outward, as the increasingly corrupt church split itself into two with the rise of Martin Luther – Catholic and Protestant. This was a division that would disrupt the European project for centuries to come even as England thwarted Spain’s dominion over the new world yet lost that half that world to the rebellious state known as America. America, a new Rome in the West, built on the bones of its native race and by the sinew of unwilling African labour; a slave society of liberty birthed in the backdrop of an increasingly enlightened Europe ungirded by revolution in France. A king fell and, later, an emperor known as Napoleon attempted again the work of Caesar, revolutionizing law and war only to fall to European coalition, leaving behind a modern world. With no powers left on earth its equal, an industrializing Great Britain created an empire upon which the sun never set. It took the Queen’s colours to China and India, Africa and Australasia, to the Caribbean and the arctic, gave the world the steam engine and the concentration camp, until Germany, reunified and imperious with a Kaiser at the helm, attempted to catch up to the British in the great game of imperialism and shook the balance of power. As various European nations scrambled into a series of complicated pre-emptive alliances amidst the arms race, a single assassination in Sarajevo plunged the entire world into four years of chaos. This Great War, not the last of its kind, destroyed the Ottomans, re-drew the maps of the world, led to the downfall of the Tsars and the birth of communism, as well as the rise of Japan and America as world powers. A league of nations formed to prevent such a calamity from ever happening again -- but its failure to promote disarmament, its failure to coax America to the table, and its failure to stop Japan’s withdrawal over Manchukuo, led to its demise. A cunning little moustachioed despot, embittered by Germany’s humiliation at the Treaty of Versailles and resentful of his Jewish neighbours, took heed of this, and transformed first his party then his nation into the penultimate enemy of the world. The threat of Nazism in the west and the dangers of Japanese ultra-nationalism in the east finally drew America to the fore – and the whole world once again plunged into the madness of war. When the dust settled, and an exhausted Europe laid down its arms, the once great British Empire began a long and slow process of decline as global power shifted towards two ideologically opposed poles – capitalist America and communist USSR. Their long cold war, frozen in stalemate by the threat of mutually assured nuclear destruction, determined the makeup of decolonization, the fate of the Eastern Bloc, as well as the shape of economics to come.

 

If the Global Fertility Crisis hadn’t doomed the world from 1988 onwards – who knows what would have happened next?

 

But of course, history couldn’t be that simple.

 

What was going on in Africa when Rome fell? What was China like _before_ the Han dynasty? Why did he know so little about the Aztecs and the Incas? Those were questions Jay always wanted to answer – and those questions made him inquisitive and questioning. His father gave him that -- the ability to question, the freedom to think for himself. It was why he didn’t buy into Pastor Evans’ religious bullshit the way everyone else in Polk did. Parker was immune to it too, but his reasons were personal – and it was natural for strong sons to rebel against strong fathers. Jay had no muscle or fortitude or hidden grudges; just a secret education that made him sceptical of zealots.

 

How could he abandon his father?

 

“What if it’s just us?” Jay said. “What if we went to Mexico and we were the only ones who believed it?”

 

“Well what if we stay here and my Dad ends up lynching us?” Parker shot back. If Pastor Evans knew even a fraction of what Jay knew about his son, Parker was a dead man. And Jay wouldn’t be too far behind.

 

Just a few yards to their east, the flames unfurling around the old Locke townhouse finally ebbed, after chewing through the ceiling and rooftop (which collapsed inside itself). The building burnt down to its very foundations, leaving nothing behind except a blackened, smoked-out husk and the molten piles of rubble that once were furniture, photo frames, and glass. The smoke rose high over the horizon. Parker reasoned you could see it for a mile out at least – that meant it was time to get going. Once they were clean, the older boy proposed they take a shortcut through the southern part of the old town – one that led to a second breach in the wall that only he knew about. But as Jay stood to leave his whole body seized up from the thigh. He seethed through clenched teeth.

 

“What’s the matter?” Asked Parker.

 

“I cut my leg coming out of the tunnel,” said Jay.

 

Parker ordered Jay to show him. He turned to his side and prised open the split part of his denims. The younger boy watched the older one stare at his gash. “You got it dirty,” he said. “Clean it up and bandage it before it gets infected.”

 

“Bandage it with what?”

 

Parker grinned, pointing his thumb over his shoulder to the north. “Come on, let’s take a detour.”

 

**We’ve already been outside for so long…** Thought Jay. “Can’t we just go home?”

 

Parker was already on the move. “You can’t walk all the way back home on a bum leg, you’ll slow me down. Come on, let’s stop at the old drug store on 5th. It ain’t too far.”

 

The drug store was where Sister Johnson used to work before Pastor Evans selected her and the six other ‘sisters’ of Polk for Adam’s Cradle. Jay found it hard to walk. “It’s stiff,” he said, referring to his leg. Parker growled in annoyance then came back, roping Jay’s arm around his shoulder. “Hussle it up,” he said, marching the pair of them up the street towards the corner at 5th. Jay hid a grin. He didn’t like feeling like a burden, but he’d take any excuse to have Parker touch him (even if it was just this, rib to rib and arm to neck).

 

The old drug store of the Johnson Family was on the corner of 5th and Main, which led northeast all the way up to Route 87. Like other stores in the abandoned part of town it was derelict, stripped of all its worth in supplies and useful materials. But _unlike_ other stores the Black Bandanas boarded this one up with plywood. They smashed in the glass doors and replaced them with nailed wood and tore down the big neon sign that once said, “Johnson’s Druggist”. Pastor Evans was very keen to make sure no one knew this was once a drug store.

 

“My Dad writes up notes on everything he does and locks them in a safe,” Said Parker, fishing out a pair of keys. “I take his keys off him when he’s asleep though. I know all his shit, Jay. He hid a fucking stash of meds out here just in case the town got ransacked again.”

 

Jay helped remove one of the boards barring the rear door that Parker then unlocked. The store was a wreck from within. Cobwebs covered the cracked ceiling; needles, trash and empty drug bottles littered the floor. All the shelves were empty. The Black Bandanas had done a very good job of picking them clean. Jay followed behind Parker as the Evans boy took out a battery torch from his pocket and led him inside. A faint beam of yellow light criss-crossed around the empty aisles, as syringes and old pills crunched beneath their sneakers.

 

“Back in the day, the soldiers used to sneak down here from the garrison at the high school and snort,” said Parker. “Sister Johnson’s mom used to whore with ‘em. All the coke is gone though, my Dad burned it.”

 

They went past the front counter where the open cash register still had a few dollars inside and turned left down the front aisle to the office door. Parker unlocked it. Squeaking mice scurried away as it creaked open. A beam of torch light passed across a broken lampshade, an overturned bookcase and a fractured oak desk. Across the floor were papers torn from the business’ books and scattered out like a mosaic. Parker flashed the light at a spot in the corner where the floorboards looked noticeably loose.

 

“Hold the light for me,” he said.

 

Jay took it from him and held it in place as Parker went over to the spot and prised open each loose plank, one by one, and yanked out a mahogany suitcase. He paused.

 

“What’ wrong?” Asked Jay.

 

“The combination lock is broken,” Parker opened it easily. “And there’s stuff missing. Paracetamol, bactine, Nyquil, the tranquilizers… fuck! Maybe someone else knows about my Dad’s stash?”

 

“Can we just get out of here, please?”

 

“Fine, Pee Wee. There’s still some dressings left anyway. Here,” Parker tossed Jay a roll of sterilized medical wrapping, still inside its plastic bag. When Parker put the suitcase back, Jay gave him the torch then pulled his blue jeans down to wrap the dressing tight around his cut thigh. It still hurt but it wasn’t bleeding, at least. His Dad would stitch him up once they got back home. Jay bent over to pull up his pants. The torchlight fell over his crotch and sparkled up the little fuzz of ginger pubic hair spreading out of his white briefs.

 

“What are you doing?” Said Jay.

 

There was a devilish grin in the darkness. “Don’t.”

 

“Don’t what?”

 

“Don’t pull them back up,” said Parker. “Turn around.”

 

**Is he serious?** “You wanna fuck here? _Now_?”

 

With his free hand he pointed at a rolled up sleeping mat in the corner behind the overturned desk. It was clean, which meant it was Parker’s – which also meant he’d been sleeping out here from time to time. “We’ve got hours before sun up and no one knows we’re here. Turn around.”

 

“Let’s do it back home where it’s safer to-”

 

Parker’s expression hardened. “I said turn around.”

 

Jay felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Parker was serious. Finding weird places to fuck was never his thing (the risks were too big, no matter whose son he was) but then hearing the word “no” wasn’t really his thing either. Sighing, and with his belt and jeans around his ankles, Jay turned his back to Parker. He kept his arms at his sides. The cold night air brought the Goosebumps out of his skin. His cock got stiff.

 

Parker’s voice went low and husky. “Take off your briefs.”

 

Jay hooked his thumbs into the elastic band and pulled them down his legs to his ankles. His manhood swung free and hard. Already, he smelt his own pre-cum in the air. And before he Parker even asked him to do so Jay bent over, eyes to the ground, and reached behind with both hands to spread his ass open. The pink bud of his asshole puckered and contracted in the torchlight. Behind him, Parker’s footsteps drew closer, until he heard Parker’s jeans unzip, and felt the outline of a stiff cotton-encased dick slide up the groove between his cheeks.

 

Something banged at the front doors. Jay and Parker froze. Seconds later came another bang, this one much louder than the first, followed by the sound of smashing wood and a loose door banging against a wall. And then voices; gruff, unfamiliar voices. The two boys scrambled, Jay yanking his underwear and jeans back on, Parker shutting off his torch and ducking behind the doorway to see what was going on. Jay followed him. They saw two men walk through the front door on the other side of the store. One, a red-bearded fatso in a Nike hat; the other a tall and shaggy-haired blonde -- both armed with sawed offs and waist belts full of 12-gauge shells; both wore full backpacks bulging with supplies. They barrelled in, overturning a fallen chair in their way and muttering to each other about a man named Wuhrer.

 

“He said they’ve got muscle but they’re mostly green,” said the blonde on. “Said he was gonna find a pretext for a parley to throw them off.”

 

**Shit! 55ers!** Thought Jay.

 

Parker turned to Jay and gestured “shush!” with a finger to his lips, pointing at a tin hatch on the floor. Jay glanced at it, it was the door to a crawlspace beneath the store. Understanding the point, Jay nodded then carefully made his way across the room in small, creeping steps.

 

“Well I don’t understand why we don’t just storm the place. They got… what? Fuckin’ half our number handy with a firearm? Why’s he fucking runnin’ scared from a bunch of Bible-thumpers?”

 

Jay prised the hatch open by his fingertips and slid in, making space for Parker to join him inside. Once he’d put the suitcase back beneath the loose floorboards the older boy followed him inside then fixed the hatch shut. They heard the office door’s knob rattle.

 

“That’s weird,” said the red-beard.

 

“What’s weird?”

 

Two pairs of thick heavy footfalls rapped the floor, the ceiling above their heads. Jay and Parker wrapped hands around their mouths. Through the hatch door they saw beams of thick torchlight wave across the room. “I thought I threw on the lock the last time I left,” he replied.

 

“Thought you broke it?”

 

Jay felt something furry tickle his ankle. He flinched (and Parker glared, they were close enough in the darkness to catch each other’s eye) but he didn’t give them away. A little squeak wondered off from his feet into the distance of the crawlspace.

 

“Nah, just picked it. Goddamn it, Clavis. Quit malingering and help me get the meds.”

 

Parker pointed upward. Jay nodded, understanding the implication (“they’re directly above our heads!”) and following his friend when he moved aside a few steps to stay out of view from the hatch door. The pair above them were not as careful, telegraphing their clunky movements with each step. The floorboards groaned where the extra weight stopped, and they were equally as loud as they pulled up the boards and retrieved Pastor Evans’ med stash, thumbing open the locks.

 

“The fuck?”

 

“What?”

 

“There’s no Tylenol, no dressings, no tranquilizers, half the fucking stash is missing!”

 

**********

 

I suppose _now_ is a good time to talk about the 55ers.

 

My father said it started with the militia movement in the early 1990s, about half a decade before the birth rates flatlined and America went on the slow train to implosion. _“The leak of the Hamilton Study in 1991 shook a lot of people’s faith in the government,”_ he’d said. _“Back then, people couldn’t believe that the higher ups would try to hide something so big from them. It fermented a wave, a wave that Pat Buchanan rode all the way from the McLaughlin Group to the White House.”_

 

The angry cynicism fuelling the late ‘90’s protests had earlier origins. Fears over the Global Fertility Crisis fused with older conversations and became national talking-points as the reality of the crisis finally hit home for America -- if the birth-rates really were declining then what did it mean for traditional America to leave the door open for immigrants or to promote miscegenation? How could you preserve the American birth rate if you sanctioned gay rights? Why was the _state_ better equipped than the _states_ to bring the country back from the brink when the _state_ had spent so much of its resources on pointless foreign jaunts; deposing Noriega and kicking the Iraqis out of Kuwait and the like? Why was that _America’s_ job? Running on those themes helped Buchanan secure the nomination from incumbent George H. W. Bush and later defeat the Democrat candidate, Bill Clinton, in a narrow but decisive victory in the US Presidential Election of 1992, Republicans retaining both the House and the Senate.

 

But there were people out there who felt that electing President Buchanan wasn’t enough.

 

To them, Republicans and Democrats were just two sides of the same coin. To them, beating the system by playing its game was a non-starter, or in the words of my Grandpa Mixon; _“a demon trying beat the devil in a fork-throwing contest”_. To them, you didn’t fight Roe v Wade in the courts, you fought it in the clinics. Thus, when Senate Minority Leader George Mitchell led a Democrat blockade of every single piece of legislation President Buchanan proposed to re-write the course of American social policy, those people felt vindicated. So? What’s left for you after a broken _state_ handicaps the _states_? Nothing’s left -- except yourself.

 

If real America wanted change then it was up to real Americans to make it. If there was an infection deep in the heart of their country, then it was up to America’s truest patriots to excise it. That was the unifying philosophy driving the militia movement of that era and it swelled their ranks to the hundreds of thousands in all 50 states over the course of a decade. They proliferated arms and retreated into privately owned compounds where they performed combat drills and drafted plots of a new American Revolution. They were a powder keg. And they went off in two stages, between the assassination of President Buchanan in 1997 and the flatline of global births in 1998. That was when all the angst and anger exploded in violence, when the firebombings of federal buildings and abortion clinics became a common occurrence, when state senators were routinely assassinated and known homosexuals were lynched in the streets. But not everyone was in favour of pro-active violence. These more moderate militiamen retreated from urban life to create small self-run localities they called Constitutional Communes, where they could ‘observe the true principles of the United States Constitution without threat of government interference’. This created a rift in the movement – the _Revanchists_ advocating terrorism in the name of national rebirth and _Reservationists_ declaring the sanctity of local autonomy and the right to self-defend.

 

If not for the Occupation that rift might never have healed.

 

When the government deployed the military to quell the unrest and recapture lost territory, the militias responded by creating an informal covenant, a union of sorts. According to the articles in those last few months before the total demise of American media, the leaders of over two-thirds of all US militias gathered together in a secret meeting in Cheyenne (the first and only city the militias ever took and held from the state). As the founding fathers once did they drew up a set of unifying principles known as the _Pledge to Reaffirm the True Values of the Constitution_ , the PRTVC or ‘Cheyenne Pledge’, and declared themselves the **Fifty-Five Thousand Army** , a union of over 55,000 separate militia groups and factions. When the Occupation ended and left a gutted America in its wake, so far as Polk knew, there was no known power left in America that carried the weight of the 55ers. They had weapons, armour, notoriety and worst of all _conviction_ in a very simple goal – to build a new and true America before God took the last generation of humanity home to the hereafter – and thereby proving their holy worth.

 

That was what they claimed, anyway.

 

Although Polk always turned away roamers, their stories occasionally snuck into town; stories about what was happening to the rest of America. Some said that the 55ers were a band of ruthless cutthroats. Others said that they were heroes struggling to rebuild what remained of American civilization. But back then, it wasn’t the 55ers that scared me. Cheyenne was their Mecca and there were more drifters flowing _to_ it than _from_ it. What scared me was the world that those former people were running away from – the world that Parker wanted us to cross to get to Mexico. What was that world like if its survivors saw a city run by those nutjobs as a safe haven? But even back then, when we knew so little about what was going on outside Polk’s wall, we knew that the 55ers were dangerous.

 

Parker and I kept silent in that crawlspace as the two militiamen cleared out the suitcase full of meds and worked out how they would “explain this” to the leader of their group, Wuhrer. They didn’t leave until sunrise. We tried to hoof it back to Polk before we anyone realized we were gone but we were too late. Halfway down the highway, a F-150 XL cut us off. A search party of six Black Bandanas (Brothers Le Charles, Moss, Ridgley, Hosta, Chamberlain and Stanfield) led by Pastor Evans himself, leapt out of the pick-up truck. We were caught.

 

Polk is my childhood.

 

And that moment, that cold morning in March, was the beginning of my childhood’s end.

 

**********

 

It was cold out, that night.

 

Jay sneezed. His nose turning red in the chill. “You look like Rudolph!” quipped Brother Daniels, who climbed up to the top of the watchtower with two mugs of hot cocoa in hand – one for him and one for young Jay. And he was grateful for it. It was unusually cold that night, so cold that half the town’s windows had frosted over. The cold bit into his boots and froze his toes, it turned every breath into an icy cloud. It was the coldest night since winter.

 

“Thank you,” said Jay.

 

He sipped some cocoa then he pulled his coat’s fur-trimmed hood tighter around his ears. Brother Daniels sat himself on the plastic patio chair next to Jay’s wooden stool. The older man took two big gulps before setting it down and picking up his PSG-1. He settled the stock into a comfortable grip by his shoulder. “Did you see anything while I was gone?”

 

“Nothing,” said Jay. “Just some stray dogs.”

 

“Good. But keep your eyes peeled. Guard duty ain’t the gig folks make it out to be.”

 

**An easy one** , thought Jay. Amongst the Fruit of God, the sentiment was that guard duty was one of the most boring chores ever – which it was. The shifts were long (anywhere from 6 to 12 hours) and the punishment for falling asleep at your post was a lashing and a month-long reduction in rations. No one liked guard duty. So, when the annoyingly kittenish Sister Kinnoch assigned him to the eastern watchtower with Brother Daniels for the rest of the week, Jay knew it was part of his punishment. At the end of his shift he’d only get a few hours’ sleep before rising at sun up for lessons and even then, he’d have to report to the schoolhouse an hour early to help Sister Kinnoch set up for class. The consensus was that Jay had gotten off easy – in the past Pastor Evans had _whipped_ people for going outside without permission – but it didn’t feel that way. What was worse was that he hadn’t seen Parker in three days. That was what really hurt.

 

Three long days since Parker breeched the wall to burn the old Locke townhouse and Jay hadn’t seen him. No one had seen him. Pastor Evans didn’t even allow his son to attend lessons – instead he was under lock and key in the great house where he and Sister Mary-Elizabeth Anderson-Evans lived. Jay felt like he was walking around with lead in his chest. It was the longest he’d ever gone without seeing Parker in years. He hated it! And he hated Pastor Evans for it.

 

**It’s not fair** , Jay buried his face nose deep into his arms as he folded them around his knees. **It’s not fucking fair at all.**

 

“YAHOOOOOOOO!”

 

It came from below, along with the roar of a revved hog and the crack of a gunshot into the night. Brother Daniels shot up out of his seat and loomed over the iron rail, Jay joined him. On the other side of the wall in the wrecked part of town and two blocks shy of the main gate, two men rode down the cracked street in a spangled chopper, whooping and yelling “Yee-haw!” and “Yeah boy!” and “Whoo-hoo!” 

 

“Shit! They’re moving too fast!” Said Daniels as he kept his eye on his sight.

 

Jay blanched. “Are they gonna ram the gate?”

 

The chopper peeled down the street on a crash course for the front gate only to stop and spin with an audible and brash screech, burning tracked rubber prints like a brand into the gravelled tract. The man on the rear seat grinned and hurled a bag over the car wall. “JUST A LITTLE GIFT FOR YA, YA COWARDS!” he yelled, as his driver revved up the hog and drove back where they came, the engine’s roar fading away.

 

The bag was a good thirty yards from the eastern watchtower.

 

“Go see what that is, Mixon!” Said Brother Daniels. “I’ll keep watch up here.”

 

Jay froze.

 

“Mixon, did you hear me? Haul ass!”

 

“R-right,” A 12-foot ladder ran from the edge of the watch tower’s roost to the street. Jay carefully threw his feet over and climbed down, one step at a time, and walked over to where the bag fell. It was hemp and tied at the mouth. And smelly. The smell was so repulsive that Jay could barely pick it up – but when he did, and he untied the string sealing it up – his red cheeks went white when he saw what was inside.

 

Jay dropped the bag. And he projected a chunky grey soup of bile, ham hocks and potato bits all over his boots and slacks. Up in the roost Brother Daniels yelled at the boy to tell him what the fuck was inside the bag, but the boy couldn’t stop coughing and spluttering. So, the Black Bandana strapped the sniper rifle to his back and came down the ladder of his own accord. “What is it, Mixon, what did they throw over the wall?” He asked.

 

Jay couldn’t reply.

 

Brother Daniels kicked the bag with a hard boot. A head rolled out of it, severed from the torso of a black man by about an inch beneath the ears. Bloated and purple, its eyes gouged out, its nostrils stuffed with copper-coloured cotton. There was a bloody paper chit stuffed between what was left of its smashed teeth. Grimacing, Brother Daniels pulled the paper out of its mouth and read the note aloud;

 

“Pay what you owe… or you’re as dead as this nigger.”

 

There was an alarm bell by the watchtower. Brother Daniels ran and rung it, summoning the Black Bandanas from the barracks in the centre of town. A torch light went up at the northern tower and a second bell joined the first. Jay knew nothing about it. Perhaps half an hour passed. He only became aware of things when a soft hand took his – Sister Garland. When he looked around now he saw dozens of Black Bandanas, all of them armed with holstered 9mms and shouldered AK-47s with three spare banana clips apiece. Some of them inspected the head. Others checked the gate to make sure it was secure. They debated calling a search party together and going after the 55ers. Some were in favour. Some were against. Most agreed that they needed to speak to Pastor Evans first.

 

“Jay,” said the sister. “Jay Mixon, are you hearing me?”

 

He looked up at her. “Sister?”

 

“Go on home, son. There’s nothing left to see here.”

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

Residential was only six blocks away. The Mixon townhouse only seven. Yet somehow it took Jay the better part of an hour to find his way home. He didn’t remember much of his walk. He passed by a patrol of Black Bandanas at one point then and fell over an old trash can at another; stared at his reflection in a puddle of frosty rainwater for a spell, then threw up some more into a gutter, all the while stumbling home. It was almost daybreak, but word hadn’t spread about the events at the wall -- if he believed in God Jay would have thanked him for that. He didn’t want to think what people would ask him tomorrow once they found out about it. The boy walked up the slope of his driveway. The full weight of his tiredness hit him the second he unlocked the door.

 

“Dad?” Jay came inside. “You awake?”

 

There was no reply, but he heard clinks and scrapes and whispers of “fuck!” coming from the kitchen. Jay followed the sounds. And there he was. Parker. Same as he ever was, curly-haired and coal-eyed with that limitless grin painted across his face. Jay’s heart rose. Then it fell again when he saw the condition that Parker was in. His left eye and cheekbone was purpled up and swollen, a deep welt to the forehead spilt blood down his eye and nose, his jaw yellowed with bruises. His lip was split. Hand-sized red marks ran the circumference of his freckled neck and he bled from cuts to the knuckles on both hands. At least this time Pastor Evans didn’t walk away unscathed.

 

Danny told Parker to hold his arms up. He did. Danny wrapped dressings all the way around the boy’s ribcage and snipped them just beneath his armpits. When he saw Jay in the doorway, gaping like a hooked trout at his best friend’s smattered canvas of a body, the doctor yelled for him to “do something useful and grab an ice pack”. Jay quickly snatched one out of the cooler and gave it to Parker for his facial swelling.

 

“Thanks,” he said.

 

Jay smiled, sadly. “Don’t mention it.”

 

“You can’t stay here,” said Danny. He dabbed Parker’s cut forehead with some cotton soaked in antiseptic as he said it. “Once you’re patched up you need to go home.”

 

“Dad!”

 

“Jay, I’m sorry but you know I don’t have a choice.”

 

Everyone in that room knew it. To the good Pastor, his son wasn’t his son at all but a stray dog he had to keep in line. Where the dog went wandering, his owner followed. A grim-faced yet calm Parker turned to the younger boy’s father and thanked him anyway. Danny Mixon was about the only adult in Polk that Parker seemed to respect. He never argued with him, never talked shit about him (even when Jay _wanted_ him to) and Jay never understood it.

 

And then a heavy fist pounded the door.

 

Jay, Danny and Parker froze.

 

“Danny!” The Pastor’s booming baritone was loud and distinctive. “Danny Mixon, I know you’re in there!”

 

It was Pastor Evans. **Already?!** Abruptly, Danny pointed out the stairwell in the hall. Parker took the hint and ran upstairs to hide. “Hide my equipment!” Said the doctor to Jay, as he scrubbed his hands in the sink and made his way out of the kitchen towards the front door. As Danny greeted the Pastor, Jay found a garbage bag in a draw and swept all the cotton, bandage wrappers, syringes and dressings into it, then hid his father’s surgical scissors and stitching spool in the knife drawer. **Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!** The smell of blood was in the air, but it was too late so do anything about it! Pastor Evans and two of his Black Bandanas, their boot-steps heavy with the loaded weight of their shoulder-strapped AK-47s and ammo belts, marched into the kitchen with Danny in tow. Jay automatically noticed the dark circle beneath Pastor Evans’ eye – Parker really _did_ fight back this time.

 

“Hello, boy,” The Pastor smiled faintly at Jay. “Have you seen my son?”

 

“I already told you, he isn’t here.” Danny interjected.

 

The Pastor’s knuckles were badly swollen and plum-coloured. He caressed one hand with the other as his eyes searched for clues that his hosts were lying to him. There were none. Frowning, a deep set downward curve sculpted into a face of stone; Evans told his men to “Search the house,” and the Black Bandanas split off. One went upstairs, the other down the hall into the lounge.

 

“Jeremiah, there’s no need for-”

 

“Did your son tell you what happened at the wall?” Said the Pastor, cutting Danny off.

 

Danny looked at Jay. “What’s happened at the wall?”

 

That severed head’s face flashed through Jay’s mind again – and he suppressed the urge to hurl. When Jay couldn’t explain it, Pastor Evans did it for him. “It seems that little jaunt our sons took has angered some 55ers on recon out of Cheyenne. They’ve demanded a supply of meds we can’t afford to give them.”

 

“What’s our next move?”

 

“I’ve requested a parley with their leader,” said the Pastor. “A man named Wuhrer. With any hope he’s the amenable type and he’ll waive his demands for a fairer offer once we explain ourselves.”

 

The look on Danny’s face told Jay that his father didn’t like the direction that this conversation was going in. “What do you mean, _explain ourselves_?”

 

The Pastor glared at Jay. “You know _exactly_ what I mean.”

 

“Now you listen here,” Danny pulled his son behind him. “There was more than one kid out there three days ago, Jeremiah. They don’t care who it was so _don’t_ involve Jay. I swear if you say one word to them I’ll leave this town for good and then you and your men can pick the shrapnel out of your own wounds.”

 

Jay’s eyes went from his resolute father to the stone-faced Pastor as they glared at each other. There was no one else in town that would dare talk like this to Evans, much less call him ‘Jeremiah’. But with leverage came courage. Danny Mixon was the only trained surgeon in town and in a world like this those skills were as precious a resource as water. Losing him was like losing an eye and the Pastor knew it. And judging by the way his bruised fist _shook_ inside his other hand, that simple fact enraged him.

 

Pastor Evans turned his frown into a thin, terse smile. “We’re holding a town meeting tomorrow to discuss our response. I’ll keep the boy out of it.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Just then the two Black Bandanas returned from their search of the house. “All clear, Pastor,” said one of them. “He’s not here.”

 

Evans’ tight smile grew even tighter. “Do let me know if you see my son?” he said to Danny, then led his men out of the house. As they slammed the door behind them Danny pulled the kitchen curtains and watched them climb into a pick-up truck and drive off. As soon as they were out of sight, he released the heavy breath he’d been holding.

 

“Dad?”

 

“Parker can stay the night,” Danny frowned. “But _only_ one night. After that he has to leave.”

 

“Thank you, Dad.”

 

**********

 

Never trust a man of God.

 

Cheyenne was the hot seat of the 55ers and militiamen crossed the border into Colorado regularly, especially runaway groups who turned to banditry to fund their escape. With Polk just a few miles off Interstate 25, how was it that Pastor Evans kept Polk out of their hands for so long?

 

I wouldn’t get an answer until a few days after it was too late.

 

**********

 

Parker flipped the Zippo with his thumb. The flame was bright and terrible in the darkness, and the moonlight a pale phantom bestrides it -- remarkably faint and insignificant. The flame was a romance in his eyes, imperceptible to the lesser. He flicked it off. Tonight, wasn’t the night for his enchantments? He said little. He just laid there on the eastern side of Jay’s bed, covered over in half his bed sheets, turning to his friend once the allure of the flame wore off. Jay gazed up at the ceiling.

 

“Sometimes,” said Parker, “I wanna burn Polk to the ground.”

 

Jay smiled, eyes on the ceiling. “…Sometimes I wish you would.”

 

“Just don’t have enough gas,” He paused in thought for a moment. “Hey.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I meant it about Mexico,” There was no doubting it. Jay flattened his right cheek on the pillow and caught a glimpse of his friend’s eyes in the darkness. The resolution was unmistakable. “Maybe Wilkes is a hoax, maybe she isn’t building fuck all down there, maybe she’s dead. Who knows? But fuck it, it’s gotta be better than this place.”

 

**Maybe finding out could cost us our lives** , thought Jay. He didn’t doubt Parker’s belief in Octavia Wilkes’ rogue radio plea -- he doubted the plea itself. Polk probably _was_ the piece of shit town he and Parker thought it was, and the thought of saying goodbye to the cult of Pastor Evans was a sweet one. But the world beyond Polk’s walls wasn’t even a world anymore – it was a wilderness, one where madmen did decapitations for message making. How would they even get to Mexico? Planes and trains were a luxury of the old world, props in a forgotten play -- they’d have to steal a car, as well as enough fuel to make it across two whole states – which was a conundrum in and of itself. Cars were a dime a dozen, but good fuel was rare. Stabilizers kept the town’s supply usable but just like the rest of Polk’s key resources – food, meds, ammo and water – the Black Bandanas kept it under close guard. If they wanted to get to Mexico, then the first step was finding a way to somehow outmuscle Pastor Evans’ men and escape with enough fuel (and food and water) without getting caught. 

 

It was a pipe dream.

 

Mexico? Burning the town down? They were just _pipe dreams_. And Jay was never more aware of himself as a kid than when he dreamt them. Just a kid in his bedroom dreaming stupid dreams. “Go to sleep,” he said to Parker. “You’re keeping me up.”

 

“You didn’t say no.”

 

 

*********

 

Beauty is fleeting.

 

Why?

 

Because death wills it.

 

And there is so much death to come…

 

*********

 

The bells over the chapel chimed at noon. In Polk, when Brother McGee rang those bells on any day other than a Sunday, everyone knew it as a summons. Over the course of an hour more than 250 people left their work stations and sewing circles. They poured into the streets and marched towards the town centre. Jay and Danny Mixon were amongst them. With his head down and hands pocketed the boy went unnoticed (as he hoped he would) by the crowd. But he heard the whispers. That a road crew threw a head over the wall. That two Fruits of God had betrayed the town by going beyond the wall into 55er territory. That Pastor Evans was a convening a town meeting to discuss what to do: _talk_ or **retaliate**?

 

An arm folded around his shoulder. Jay looked up at his father, who smiled down and pulled his boy close. “It’s going to be okay, Jay,” he said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

 

The brothers and sisters of Polk gathered together at the limestone steps of the county courthouse, its tall white pillars still cracked with bullet holes from the Mountain Crow shootout all those years ago. Black Bandanas stood guard and ushered them in two by two through the derelict metal detectors into the antechamber, where they’d arranged almost 300 chairs (mostly folding and wicker) into two columns of 150 divided by an aisle. Six seats faced the ‘pews’. Pastor Evans had one. His second wife Sister Mary-Elizabeth Anderson-Evans had another. One was absentee (presumably for Parker) but the other three were taken by Brothers Willard, Moss, and Shaw – the top three men of Pastor Evans’ personal guard. They each carried holstered 9mms and batons. Their vests were black and bulletproof.

 

The townsfolk took their seats. Jay and Danny found theirs halfway up the right-hand column, but Pastor Evans was aware of them, his eyes trained on Danny from the moment they stepped in. After around twenty minutes of foot shuffling and light chitter-chatter the courthouse antechamber fell silent and the Black Bandanas closed the lacquered oak doors.

 

Pastor Evans arose.  “First. Let us give thanks to He who gave us breath and body, He who carries us from one day to the next by the greatness of His love.”

 

“PRAISE BE TO GOD,” replied the townsfolk. “TO HIM AND ALL HIS GLORY.”

 

The Pastor shot Danny a final glance before he began. “Thank you all for coming so quickly today. Know that I do not call you from your duties on a whim. We indeed have important matters to discuss. Four days ago, two Fruits of God leapt the wall without permission and stole medical supplies from a group of militiamen under the banner of the Fifty-Five Thousand Army. The Bandanas brought the boys back and I have punished them for their misdeeds. However, the leader of that militia, a man named Wuhrer, has demanded his recompense in medicine.”

 

“How much does he ask?” Asked a brother.

 

Pastor Evans frowned. “More than we can spare.”

 

Light murmurs abounded.

 

“I have requested a parley,” said the Pastor. “And it is my hope to convince him that he asks more than we can provide, and come to an agreement on a more suitable way to repay his group for their losses. And so, I have called you all here today to discuss my proposal before I bring it to Wuhrer.”

 

Someone in the pews asked, “What do we propose?” of him. The deep grooves of a frown formed in Evans’ stone-forged face as he replied, “We do not have enough medicine to share. But we do have three larders, each one sufficient to feed Polk for three months under heavy rationing. What I propose is that we offer up the contents of one to Wuhrer and his men and with that come to the agreement that this matter is settled.”

 

The murmurs grew heavy and solemn. _Capitulation!_ Hissed a brother. _We worked so hard last harvest…_ said a sister, _and so many men lost their lives on those supply runs…_ Theirs was an understandable train of thought – how could they sacrifice even one larder after all the sweat, blood and tears it took to produce them? Jay recalled that harvest, those runs. Pastor Evans had the entire town summoned for service and burial whenever a Bandana lost their life beyond the wall. _They gave their lives for our sustenance_ , he’d say on those cold mornings by the boneyard, _praise Him for His glory that they art received into his bosom_.

 

The whispers were fraught. And then someone stood up.

 

It was a winter-haired octogenarian named Sister Pryce. Jay recalled her yelling at him as he and Parker once trampled her cabbage patch during a game of tag, years ago. As she took to her feet everyone in town glanced her way. “Pardon me, Pastor,” said Sister Pryce. “But I’ve still one good ear on me, and it hears ill. I lost my eldest boy on those runs. Y’all remember my son? They brought him back shot to pieces over some cans of spam I believe. And with my head held high I kissed him away to God right there on his cooling board because I believed my son died for a purpose. Begging your pardon, Pastor Evans, but I don’t believe that purpose was filling the belly of some heathen bastard banging down the walls of my home! I can’t believe it! I shan’t!”

 

Murmurs of agreement filled the air. The Pastor’s cold grey eyes went from Sister Pryce (as her remaining sons helped her back onto her seat) to a younger sister in one of the rear rows who then stood up. “Meaning no disrespect Pastor but I think a good many of us agree with Sister Pryce. Our brothers worked so hard to get that food last year. The whole town’s gonna be relying on that food come winter! Why should any of us go hungry on account of what Danny Mixon’s boy did out there where he wasn’t supposed to be in the first place?”

 

Jay froze.

 

Danny launched up from his chair and took the floor. “I hope the good sister isn’t so naïve to think that my son is the first to go beyond the wall without permission? Or so uninformed that she doesn’t realize my son didn’t do it on his own? And I hope she remembers who it was who set her daughter’s broken leg in a splint when she snuck into the Wissop stables on her own last fall.”

 

The sister, offended, silenced herself.

 

Pastor Evans glared at Danny. “Regardless of how it happened, we have to negotiate. I share Sister Pryce’s misgivings, believe me I do. But the only alternative is bloodshed.”

 

At this point what was once whispers was now full-blown chatter. Brothers and sisters of Polk turned to each other and mulled over the debate. “It ain’t right!” yelled a brother, though he wasn’t brave enough to stand up and say it. And all around him Jay overheard a growing, angry agreement that Pastor Evans’ proposal of turning over the larder was too unfair. And then a brother, Myers was his name, stood up and spoke. “These folks speak true, Pastor. It was God’s grace what gave us those larders. Parcelling it off to those thugs out of Cheyenne over those what worked so hard to build ‘em ain’t fair. I say there’s gotta be another way to mollify ‘em without giving up our food or our meds.”

 

Pastor Evans sighed. “What do you suggest, Brother?”

 

But Brother Myers did not have an answer. He went silent on the point and sat down without anything further to add. But then a voice from behind him, a sister’s voice, shrilly cried out; “Give them the boy!” Jay’s heart thumped in his breast as others grunted and nodded in agreement. “It ain’t our fault!” said a brother to his right. “Why should we all have to pay?”

 

“Listen to yourselves!” Yelled Danny. “We’re being blackmailed by militiamen and you want to blame one of your own? Instead of standing together? Is this what stands for solidarity in Polk?”

 

“Solidarity?” All heads turned to one of the seats closest to the front. It was Brother Locke, father of Billy Locke, who said it. Legless from the right knee down, the former Black Bandana needed his makeshift crutch to stand. And there was nothing but fury in his eyes. “What solidarity have YOU shown? When was the last time you came to church or pitched in on the farm? And that pencil-neck boy of yours? Not ONCE has he taken his responsibilities to this town seriously! All the other Fruit of God have shown it! My boy’s top of his class in tracking and hunting! He was born to be a bandana! What’s YOUR son gonna do for this town?”

 

Danny sneered. “I saved your life, Caleb…”

 

“I owe you no debts,” he hissed back. “All I owe is to this town and may the Lord strike me down before I watch any of these good men and women go hungry because YOUR reckless boy went sticking his nose where it wasn’t welcome!”

 

By now more than half the crowd was on Brother Locke’s side. And they were vocal about it. Some clapped him, some cheered him, some stood for him. All were loud. Danny looked around the antechamber as if surrounded by strangers. An uncharacteristically reserved Pastor Evans watched the crowd voice their support of Brother Locke’s statement as well, his keen eyes tracking the tenor and tide of the debate. It had not shifted in Jay’s favour.

 

“Let us be clear,” he said. “You all are proposing that we submit Jay Mixon to the 55ers as placation for his trespasses into their territory, correct?”

 

“What other choice do we have?” Said Brother Locke.

 

“Have you all gone insane!?” Roared Danny. “You’re not touching my son! You promised me, Jeremiah! You promised me Jay wouldn’t be involved!”

 

Pastor Evans, arms folded, sighed. “I did nothing of the kind, ‘Brother’ Mixon. If American democracy still exists anywhere in this land, then it’s right here in the courthouse. Polk has the right to determine the fate of its citizens by consensus and by right of God: _‘He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him over for us all, how will He not also with him freely give us all things?’_ ”

 

Danny Mixon almost spat his disgust. _“…‘Has the Lord as great a delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to listen than the fat of rams.’_ ”

 

The Pastor smiled coolly. “To quote isn’t to believe,”

 

“To believe isn’t to adhere,” Replied the doctor.

 

But by then the Pastor had had enough. When he stood up the crowds went silent and he called out to them as if drawing a gavel on the matter. “I called this meeting to discuss our response to Wuhrer and his 55ers. You’ve rejected my proposal and offered one of your own. We cannot make the decision lightly, but we must make it. So, we’ll vote. Hands in favour?”

 

There was a pause. Danny scanned the crowd. Jay didn’t dare look. Silence maintained. And then, behind the Mixons by some thirteen rows, a single hand rose. A second went up. Then a third. And then six. Then fifteen. A wave of hands launched into the air around Danny and Jay, one after the other, until more than two thirds of the room had consented. Jay felt his blood run cold.

 

“All opposed?” Said Pastor Evans.

 

A stunned Danny raised his hand. He looked around himself waiting for others to join him. Some looked ashamed, some sympathetic, some adamant – but although a third of the townsfolk had not raised their hands to condemn his son -- none of them raised a hand to oppose it. To see Danny Mixon then was to watch a man’s very faith in humanity ebb and erode in real time.

 

“…Bastards,” he spat. “You heartless bastards!”

 

“That’s enough,” said the Pastor. “I am sorry, Brother Mixon, but the town’s decision is clear… and final. For his intransigence and defiance of our laws, Polk has no choice but to submit your son to Wuhrer and his 55ers as recompense for his crimes.”

 

“You can’t do this!” Protested Danny.

 

It was too late.

 

Pastor Evans pointed out two of his Black Bandanas standing guard by the antechamber wall. They swung their AK-47s behind their backs by the straps and booted through the crowd of seated townsfolk to get to a trembling, almost deaf-mute Jay. Furious, Danny pulled his son behind him and warned the bandanas to stay back. The first took his cudgel out and clapped Danny across the face with it. Jay screamed for his father as the second snatched him away. Blood oozed through the gaps in Danny’s hand as he cradled his own face. Faces of horror surrounded them but none intervened. Jay was thrown into the arms of a third bandana as he yelled “Dad! Dad!” but he was powerless to help. The Black Bandana with the bloody cudgel ordered the doctor to “stand down” or “get his head cracked”. But Danny didn’t listen. He pulled his face out of his hands, his eye turning purple, his nose caked black with blood, and ran the opposite side of the row out into the walkway between the pews, roaring like a madman, eyes on Pastor Evans as he charged up the aisle towards him. The crowd gasped. Jay gaped on helplessly. Brother Shaw, the bandana closest to the Pastor, un-holstered his 9mm and peppered three shots. One struck Danny’s arm. The second took out his left eye. The third caved his chest. The son screamed as the father fell, collapsing into a heap just a few yards shy of Pastor Evans’ seat. All of Polk rose up from their seats and stared dumbfounded at their doctor, dropped like a deer in the hunt, their gasps of fright shattering the silence. His fingers twitched for a moment, just a moment, then stopped cold as his blood pooled out beneath him. Brother Moss knelt to feel his neck for a pulse.

 

“He’s gone,” he said.

 

The stone-faced pastor nodded. “Take the boy away.”

 

**********

 

To this day I still wonder why my father did what he did.

 

Hatred?

 

It wasn’t a secret that Danny Mixon and Pastor Evans didn’t like each other. All of Polk knew. And Danny Mixon was the last man in town clever enough to play his position. That’s why he refused to teach anyone else his surgical skills, knowing full well that made him disposable. Maybe he thought – if I can’t save my son then I’m going to kill the son of a bitch who let it happen. Maybe years of bowing to Jeremiah Evans and tending to his men’s wounds only to get screwed over when it mattered most; maybe the outrage of that finally snapped his patience in half. I didn’t realize how much I loved my father until they took him from me. And I didn’t realize how much I hated Polk, the shitty little town that raised me, until I watched its people condemn me to death. I bet good old Pastor Evans didn’t want it to go down the way it did (after all those events cost him his one and only surgeon) but does that matter? Does that absolve him or the people that raised their hand in that room?

 

Danny Mixon was good in a world where good people are almost extinct.

 

He raised his son alone and taught him almost everything he knew about the world. He cared for the health of pseudo-pious nutjobs who loathed him for his lack of willingness to submit to the teachings of their local overlord. He could have told the whole town about Parker’s involvement in the trespass into 55er territory, but he kept his mouth shut because he knew that Parker didn’t deserve to die for sneaking over a fucking wall. Not once did he raise his hand to me in anger. And he was as kind to others as he was to me. He always did what he thought was best, even if that meant the worst for him.

 

He was a fool.

 

I learned a lot of lessons that day. It taught me what kind of world I really lived in. If you read enough of the old world’s books you’ll lapse into a false sense of security about other people -- that they’re inherently good and that no matter what they do, all they really need is a reminder of their goodness to pull them from the brink. But you know what? The truth is the opposite. The truth is that people are _evil_. And once you strip away the pretence of civilization they revert to that same savage Cro-Magnon smashing his rival’s head against the cave wall to get ahead. Law? Morality? Modernity? Equal rights? Who were we kidding? Good people are genetic outliers. They’re symbols of what we wish we were. They try to shield us from ourselves with reason and ethics, but shit is still shit no matter what shape you mould it into. In this world of shit, goodness is a disease of the mind that blinds you to danger and renders you unfit to respond. It’s paralysing. And the people who have it, people like my father? They don’t survive long.

 

I had to hold on to my immunity.

 

**********

 

There was a light knock. Jay sat on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs. Keys jangled on the other side of the cellar door, which slowly croaked open for a single ignis fatuus of candlelight to wander into his cell. It was a girl, 20 or 21 years old, blonde, her face freckled up like a mug of milk sprinkled with chocolate shavings. Jay didn’t know her. But she came every day for the last three days; mornings with water and porridge, evenings with water and buttered bread.

 

Jay watched her sad smile as she put the wooden tray down at his feet. She kept the candlestick close to her. “How are you today?” She asked. “Still not eating?”

 

As a reply, he kicked the tray over with his foot. Porridge splattered all over her dress and his sneaker. The noise drew one of the Black Bandanas to the door who barked, “Sister Redwood, are you alright? Is everything okay in there?”

 

“Everything’s fine!” She had a slight drawl. Growing up, he’d listened to enough audiobooks on cassette to know that it was southern. She wasn’t from around here originally. Maybe Georgia or South Carolina. “I’m quite alright, just a little spill, darling!” Then she turned to Jay. “Come on, kiddo, you need to eat. Ain’t no other way you can keep your strength up.”

 

He looked away.

 

She sighed. There was a leather satchel hanging off her thin shoulder. Sister Redwood set her candlestick down to unzip it, withdraw a bible, and flip it to a bookmarked page. “Revelations 21:4. _‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed a-”_

 

“I DON’T WANNA LISTEN TO YOUR FUCKING BIBLE!” Screamed Jay.

 

Sister Redwood froze. Men yelling at women was not uncommon in Polk, but novitiates daring to raise their voices to their elders was. She looked shocked. But she did not chide him. Rather she frowned, put her bible away, and folded her hands into her lap. “Jay, I’m so sorry about what happened to your father. No one wanted that to happen.”

 

He scoffed. His memory of a hundred and a half hands thrust into the air for a death sentence reverberated. He would never forget his father’s eyes, one glassed over and the other shot out, his teeth skinned back in a shocked, agonizing scowl. No one stood up to help him. No one stood up to help his father. Polk was ready and willing to sacrifice the Mixons to save its own skin. Sister Redwood tried to encourage Jay otherwise, asking him to at least ask for some water to “keep his mind right” when the time came for Wuhrer and his 55ers to claim him.

 

**If I starve myself** , thought Jay, **you all lose your fatted ram. Heh. It’s almost worth dying just to spite you all.** It was a cheering thought. But the truth was opposite -- _none_ of these people were worth dying for. ‘Pumpkinhead’ was right all along – they should have burned the whole damn town down.

 

Sister Redwood sighed, realizing that her work here was fruitless. With her candlestick in hand she stood up to leave and rapped her knuckles on the cellar door. She said, “I’ll keep you in my prayers, kiddo,” as the guard at the door let her out. He locked it back just as quickly.

 

With her candlelight gone there was little light left in his prison, just a few blades of bone pale moonlight falling onto the cold stone floor riddled with dust, straw, cobwebs and hundreds upon hundreds of little black kernels of mice shit. Jay crawled over to the rusty tin bucket he’d been using as a toilet for the past three days, and took from underneath it a key wrapped in a paper note (smuggled through the cellar window bars two days ago). Jay unwrapped the note and re-read it for what had to have been the sixteenth time, misspellings and all. 

 

_Sorry abot what my dad did. Wat for my sigal before you unloc the door._

  * _Pumpkinhead_



 

Jay held the note and key to his breast like a life preserver. **He’s coming for me** , thought the boy. **I’ve just got to hold on**.

 

**********

 

I felt like dying when they locked me in that cellar. I felt like killing too. I felt like killing Pastor Evans and Brother Locke and his son and the Black Bandana who shot my father dead. I’ve come to believe that there is something inside us all that aches for destruction. We like misery, we like death; we revel in crumbling towers and broken mores. Even fiction is just a peep show at the struggle of others. That’s why no one’s content with happily ever after. We’re all just scum pretending to be better than we are. I was too.

 

That’s why Parker’s special.

 

He _really_ isn’t like other people. He never hid it. He never even questioned it. He lives his evil with every breath he takes. He operates on a different plane. _Higher_ or **lower**? Well that depends on you, doesn’t it? Everything that would have made him an abomination in the old world makes him a survivor in this one. I was going to learn that for myself, witness it first-hand. But back then, when my whole hometown decided to serve me up on a platter for the 55ers, I only saw my best friend fighting to save me from them. And that was what kept me going. That was what kept me from giving up. My father was dead, but I still had Parker. And I needed him then more than ever.

 

What was contentment to me (then)?

 

The twinkle in his eye as he torched things. The sense of reckless abandon that seemed to seep from his pores, intoxicating me like a drug. My lips around his cock. A belly full of his cum. I didn’t give a fuck about Mexico. But I’d follow him to the ends of the earth just to be near him.

 

I couldn’t die just yet.

 

**********

 

Jay woke to the smell of blood.

 

It was rank and raw and everywhere, rusty and pungent, filling up his nostrils and choking him. He could taste it in the air. It was the first thing he was aware of – the first warning sign that something was wrong.

 

**Is this the signal?** He thought. Alarmed, Jay crawled out of his straw pallet, quickly unzipped his jeans to empty his bladder into the bucket, then he fished the key out of his pocket and quietly crept outside. His sneakers were whisper quiet as he trod up the stone stairwell to the ground floor door. Jay pushed it open. 

 

A Black Bandana, Brother Abner, sat slumped against the white painted corridor wall. He was dead.

 

**What the hell?** Jay peered over his body. Thin rouge wounds ran like cord reel around his neck – like he’d been garrotted – and his head slumped so low his chin touched the black padding of his bulletproof vest: his neck was broken. And with a hell of a lot of force by the look of it. **Jesus…** There was a 9mm near his limp right hand, a Beretta m9, its safety disengaged. Jay carefully kicked it away from Brother Abner’s corpse and took it up. With his finger around the trigger guard he left the Black Bandana behind and silently crept down the corridor to the rear antechamber door of the courthouse. He opened it. And then he knew where the smell came from.

 

Bodies.

 

Everywhere.

 

**Oh God…** All over the antechamber floor, blown from their deck and wicker chairs, heaped and tangled together in a mess of bloodied limbs. Most were shot through their backs. A few too close to the chamber doors had had their skulls caved in -- with hi-power automatic fire. Gristle, blood smatter and spent rounds smeared those spots of the marble floor where a body didn’t occupy. Jay gagged. He recognized all the faces. These were the townsfolk of Polk, maybe more than half of them, rounded up and shot to pieces.

 

Then he heard screams. A woman’s screams, from outside, along with the ecstatic, sneering laughter of three, maybe four others; all male – and revving motors. Jay edged his way around the massacred bodies (almost slipping in a puddle of Sister Chamberlain’s brain matter) towards the chamber doors – honeycombed with bullet holes and barely hanging off their iron hinges. He carefully pushed a wider gap between them and put his eyeball to it. Out on the street past the courthouse steps was his teacher Sister Kinnoch, crying and bleeding from the teeth. Her shoes were gone, and her breasts spilled out of a tear in her magnolia bodice. She cradled Billy Locke in her arms. His throat was cut.

 

Three men surrounded her.

 

**55ers** , thought Jay. Unshaved, sweaty, vicious and well-armed, their Harleys sat beached on the courthouse steps. One had a bloody machete in his hand. The tittering second waggled the sister’s own bra front of her. The third kept his Ithaca 37 trained on her. They all called her a whore and told her to “jiggle those udders a spell”. When she didn’t, the machete man cuffed her hard and told her to “put the boy down”. When she refused (again) he cuffed her (again). That time he knocked out a tooth. Sister Kinnoch cried out, screamed for help, but there were no Black Bandanas to come to her aid. The shogun-man grabbed a ball of her hair and shoved her face-first into the tarmac whilst his friend tossed her bra and dragged Billy Locke’s corpse out of her arms. After that, they pounced, tearing off what little of her clothes she had left, pinning her hands and spreading her legs. And then they took turns on her.

 

Jay pulled his eye away from the door.

 

**Shit** , he thought, **can’t get out that way**. He doubled back across the antechamber of massacred townsfolk, past his cell(er) and the corpse of Brother Abner, down the length of the basement corridor to the rear fire exit; locked through the push bar by a two-by-four. Jay prised it loose, pushed the bar, and stepped outside.

 

Half the townhouses were ablaze; silhouetted stacks of brick and mortar turning black within towering pillars of fire, roiling the dry night air, air so hot it prickled his skin. Black fragments snapped off the rooftops and fell burning into the streets. Smog-like clouds of smoke fogged the streets. The taste of soot and salt was everywhere. In the distance, even amidst the roar of the flames, screams and automatic fire resounded. Coughing (but alert) Jay kept his ear to the air. Pistol shots interrupted heavier barrages of fire at increasingly wider intervals. **Sounds like Bandanas fighting the 55ers** , he thought. **And it’s coming from the east, where the barracks are**.

 

That meant the west, hopefully, was clear.

 

Jay tucked the 9mm beneath his belt and ran across the street into an alleyway between the old butcher shop and Dinkley’s Diner. A sister laid face down and motionless between two overturned trash cans, naked from the hips down, her thighs smeared with blood and faecal matter. A string of bullet casings ran from her corpse to the corner of the alley, where a Black Bandana had fallen to multiple shots to the head. His face was so mangled that Jay didn’t even recognize him. Past the rightward turn Jay followed the alleyway into the next block. Across the street stood a ring-fenced parking lot where the Fruit of God first started their hand-to-hand training. That lot now paddocked around 40-50 sisters of Polk, each in various stages of undress. Some cried. Some maintained a show of defiance. All were silent as a dozen 55ers stood guard around the lot, their assault rifles at the ready. Jay was already backing away from scene when more than six pick-up trucks rolled into the street from the north, and a second squad of 55ers jumped out with chains in their hands.

 

Jay doubled back into the alleyway where there was a fire escape ladder suspended from the diner roof. Nervously, Jay scaled it. The eerie wails of women clapped in irons made it difficult to focus on climbing but he eventually got to the top, where he kept low and progressed across the roof to a second fire escape. From there he made his way back down, stepping down the iron steps as gingerly as possible, and emerging in an alleyway half a block past the lot. He ran quietly into another street, this one curiously untouched by the fighting, but kept to the shadows of fire hydrants, phone booths, abandoned cars and old stalls as he made his way up the lane towards the residential part of town.

 

Twenty minutes later Jay found himself a stone’s throw away from his house. He peered over the bonnet of a parked LaSabre. Across the street, 55ers were looting every townhouse they found. They booted the doors open and barged in with crews of two or three. Ten minutes later they returned with their arms and backpacks overflowing with loot and supplies; jewellery, food, alcohol, cigarettes, medicine, pistols, ammo, etc. Some siphoned gas from the cars in their driveways. A column of pick-up trucks awaited the 55ers by the side of the road. Team by team each crew emptied their captured goods into the wagons then proceeded to the next townhouse. They had already done over the Mixon townhouse. They broke his front door in two, the lower half hanging off the loose hinge like a saloon door, the other splintered to pieces over the front lawn.

 

A hand clamped around Jay’s mouth.

 

He screamed but it came out a muffled jumble. Then a voice whispered “Ssh! They’ll hear you…! Come on, follow me...!”

 

Parker.

 

Once he checked to make sure the coast was clear (and no one on the other side was paying attention) the older boy grabbed the younger one by his wrist and led him up the driveway of a looted house. They jogged around the garage into a garden path, hopped over a ring fence, and landed on the other side in a back street with a steel shutter suspended over a lock up. Parker unlocked it with a key inside his sock. Without thinking Jay helped him pull the shutter up. Inside were some abandoned tools and a white Fort Escort. There were two bikes strapped to the hood – Jay’s Schwinn and Parker’s Litespeed -- and when Parker popped the trunk to dump his backpack Jay saw it full of supplies. Food, water, gas cans, batteries, maps, rope, tools, two torches, two sleeping bags, two rifles and some ammo boxes.

 

“Get in the car,” said Parker as he took out a torch. Jay climbed in and shut the door as the Pastor’s son pulled the shutter back down, plunging the shut in into darkness until he turned the torch on and got in the car.

 

“Here,” Parker pulled a small bottle of whisky out of the glove compartment, took a swig, then passed it to Jay. “It’ll settle your nerves.”

 

Jay drank a bit then spluttered. He still tasted blood and smoke in his mouth. “…W-what do we do now?”

 

“We wait,” said Parker. “The 55ers already went over this part of town. They’ll roll out before sun up. That’s when we make our move.”

 

The Mixon boy took another swig then passed it back. “Can’t believe this happened. What _did_ happen?”

 

“The parley was a set-up,” said Parker. “The 55ers didn’t give a fuck about you. They didn’t give a fuck about the meds. It was a ruse they cooked up to distract the whole town. I was on wall duty with Brother Aker when we heard one of the watchtowers went down by the main gate, so we drove across town to investigate but it was too late… they’d already breeched the wall. Our guys bucked with their guys, but I snuck out on the fire fight to make my way to the courthouse… and when I got there the 55ers were already rounding everyone up and marching ‘em in and then after that all I heard was shooting. I thought…” Parker finished the whisky. “…I thought maybe you was dead.”

 

Jay’s cock twitched.

 

“…I’m fine. So that fire by the courthouse…”

 

“I thought you was dead,” He said. “And I wanted them to suffer. Everyone, everything. This whole shit town. The fucking 55ers. All of it. I just wanted to burn all of it.”

 

Blood pounded in Jay’s ears. He looked at Parker, all scruffy and unkempt, threads of soot and sweat running down his face like black blood and realized that for the _first_ time since the Black Bandanas shot Danny Mixon down – Parker was the only one he had left in his life. There was no one else. There was _nowhere_ else. With his childhood as a Fruit of God laid bare as a sham, his pious overlords all dead and his hometown stripped for scrap; everything that had been anything to him in his sixteen years of life was now gone. No home, no family, no friends. Only Parker.

 

**You’re all that’s left worth living for** , thought Jay, staring at the older boy.

 

“My Dad sold us out,” Parker sniffed. “Those meds in the drug mart? He was skimming off the town’s supply.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Protection. It’s all in his notes,” that was when Jay noticed a sheaf of papers in the open glove compartment. Parker had strung it all together with twine. “Remember how Brother Locke lost his leg? That hospital run in Fort Collins? They weren’t bandits we killed, they were 55ers. They followed the Bandanas back to Polk and threatened to call in reserves from Cheyenne unless we paid them off. And not just with meds. All those hidden stashes I told you about? They’re all for Wuhrer and his boys, to keep the 55ers off our backs. I guess them not getting the full drop on their last pick-up from the druggist was the final straw.”

 

Jay sneered, even tittered a little at that. _Everything about Polk was a sham_. That the great and moral Pastor Evans, the beacon of light and strength for all of Polk, saw fit to bow and scrape to the 55ers for their protection. The most incorruptible man they knew was as corrupt as the rest. It was a joke. A cruel one. And an entire town paid the price for it.

 

**Not that they didn’t deserve it** , thought Jay. “Where is he? Where’s your Dad?”

 

By now Parker had lit up a Newport. He blew a plume of smoke. “…I don’t know. I don’t care.”

 

“So, what now?”

 

There was a map in Parker’s back pocket. He took it out and slapped it on the dashboard. Then he turned to Jay with that ambitious, half-mad grin of his and he mouthed the word ‘Mexico’.

 

**********

 

We waited until morning as planned. I opened the shutter and he drove us out. I’ll never forget what Polk looked like as we drove out. It was a ghost town, hollowed out to its very marrow and left for the crows. Strewn about the streets were the dead of both sides, Black Bandanas and the 55ers, as well as fallen townsfolk. Those fires Parker had set in the middle of town had died down, but columns of smoke pillared into the sky from the charred rubble. Watching that from the car window, I remember thinking that bandits would spot that smoke and quickly come to pick at the remains. Even if those women the 55ers captured somehow broke free, there was nothing to return home to. Polk was dead.

 

Was I scared?

 

How could I not be?

 

I didn’t know what the world had in store for me and Parker. I suppose, at that point in time, I didn’t think about it much – I just wanted to get out of dodge before more men with guns came calling. But I _was_ scared. Too scared to go and too scared to stay; the fear felt like a cold weight in my stomach, un-ignorable and belligerent. If I didn’t have him by my side I don’t know how I would have handled it. But I did. I may not have believed in his dream, but he was _my_ dream… and at that moment I knew that no matter where he went… I would follow. Because I loved him. I didn’t know it then (though it was soon to dawn on me) but I loved Parker Evans. My Pumpkinhead. He could belittle me, bully me, beat me, rape me -- I didn’t care. I loved him. I _needed_ him, and he needed me… like any flame needed oxygen. _‘We could survive out there’_ , I thought, _‘as long as we’re together’_.

 

Back then it didn’t occur to me that there might be things out there in that maggot-infested carcass of an outside world that would try their very scathing best to tear us apart.

 

**********

 


	3. Interstate 25, Part 1

_“It’s a quarter to twelve and you’re going to die at midnight. How would you spend those last fifteen minutes?”_

 

That’s the credo behind Octavia Wilkes’ movement.

 

Some people think her proposition is about freedom. I think if they thought more deeply about it, they’d see that this corpse of a world’s _overflowing_ with freedom – freedom to rob, freedom to rape, freedom to main, freedom to kill. Her credo was about viewing the collapse of civilization as a last best opportunity for a better freedom – _truth-to-self_. It was a freedom that defied the moral pretences of the 55ers or the fundamentalists. Their calls to arms were always declarations or orders dressed up in old world concepts; _“join us and help us restore America in God’s grace”_ and the like. Hers was a call for comity amongst outcasts in a dying world – ‘here’s your last chance to be true to yourself’. Although I admit that I didn’t hear the call the way Parker and her other pilgrims did, that’s the part that always held weight for me.

 

Understanding the weight of that ethos was difficult back then -- when we were fresh out of Polk and frightened as fuck by the bloodbath that the 55ers made of our hometown. I saw the merit in rejecting old world polities and creeds – Government, Christianity, Capitalism, etc. God wasn’t real, and money couldn’t replace him. And yet I wasn’t quite ready to replace Wilkes’ teachings for my own… even though Parker already had.

 

Keep that in mind, whoever you are, as you listen to this. It’s going to help you understand the boy I fell in love with.

 

**********

 

Jay’s eyes were fixed on a broken window sealed up by duct tape. A cold night wind howled outside, hard enough to rattle the rotted wooden sill. **If that window breaks, it’ll be cold as hell through the night** , he thought. It was chilly enough as it was (which was why Parker let Jay keep his shirt on).

 

“Arch your back,” said Parker.

 

Jay complied. He was on his knees. He rested his face on his sleeping mat. He had a grey pillow folded beneath his stomach and crotch. Parker unbuckled Jay’s denims, yanking them down to his knees. It was so nippy the younger boy felt his ass cheeks goose-pimple, but he tried to block out the cold by not thinking about it. He closed his eyes and pictured his living room hearth back in Polk. He recalled distant images of an old night by its warmth; him curled up in his jammies with _Huckleberry Finn_ for company, the smell of mulled wine and pipe smoke in the air, his father humming Silent Night as he threw kindling into the fire.

 

“Your asshole is winking at me,” said Parker.

 

Jay giggled. Then he overheard the older boy spit into his hand and his giggles became a sigh. Spit made for shit lube, but they didn’t have any oil or jelly. One of the few things Parker forgot to pack on their little fucking road trip to Mexico. A pair of strong, rough hands spread open his ass cheeks. Parker spit on that too. Jay felt it ooze down his crack. He shivered. And then came that mushroom-shaped cockhead, pressing against his rosebud hole.

 

“Go slow, okay?” Asked Jay.

 

Parker didn’t answer. The younger boy cried out “oh!” when the older boy’s cockhead popped open his puckered pink ring of flesh, and over a long, gradual moment, the thin length of Parker’s seven-and-a-half inches slid deep inside Jay until his hips clamped down over his ass. **…Fuck!** Jay exhaled a deeply held breath through gritted teeth, grabbing handfuls of his sleeping bag into his fists and spreading his legs wider to accommodate Parker’s weight. Parker, growling with delight, grabbed Jay’s hips and told him how fucking tight he was. “Try not to jizz early,” Jay spat back with a grin. In retaliation Parker snatched Jay’s wrists behind his back and stopped going slow. He pulled back an inch or two before thrusting it back in, deep and hard, rocking Jay forward with each stroke, until a rhythmic series of grunts and fleshly slaps filled the warehouse up to its rusted metal rafters.

 

“Ugh!” Groaned Jay. **Fuck!** He thought. “Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”

 

Parker pushed Jay’s face into the pillow. “Be quiet! You sound like a fucking whore sometimes, you know that?”

 

He moaned ‘I can’t help it’ into the fabric, but it came out as muffled garble of vowels. And it was true. He couldn’t help it. No single pleasure in Jay’s world competed with the pleasure of Parker fucking him; of spreading his legs and letting that long, warm cock split his asshole open; of holding on for dear life as Parker’s thighs came thundering down on his own; at those guttural grunts of ecstasy Parker crooned with each thrust or at his horny, possessive touch grabbing at his body wherever he so pleased; snatching his wrists, pushing his shoulders, clutching his throat. With his wrists now trapped behind his back Jay couldn’t sneak a hand down to touch himself but even better – as Parker humped him, Parker’s weight made Jay hump the pillow underneath him. The soft friction felt so good, and the cock pushing in and out of his rectum was even better. The Mixon boy grit his teeth as he hit his climax and let out a long, delirious moan. Threads of thick white spunk shot into the pillow. Huffing and spent, he collapsed into his sleeping mat. He always had his hardest, most tiring orgasms when Parker cornholed him.

 

“I’m coming!” Grunted Parker.

 

The pastor’s son ploughed into him with one final stroke. Jay’s brain was so numb with delight he barely noticed four days’ worth of seed emptied out into his anus. Parker shivered and trembled with each pump of sperm his prick spent. He groaned and gasped, wiping the sweat from his brow, then rolled off the younger boy’s back onto his own sleeping mat. They caught their breaths together in the darkness. Jay took a towel out of his backpack and mopped up his brow. There was a can of Bush’s Best warmed over by their campfire. Parker spooned some into his mouth.

 

“Where to next?” Asked Jay, pulling his jeans back up. Nearby him was one of the Colorado maps that Parker seized from his father’s supply room back in Polk. He rolled it out over the stone floor, brushing away the mustardy weeds sprouting from its cracks.

 

Parker pointed his spoon at the I-25. “It’s a straight shot from here to Denver by the interstate. We just follow it south through Colorado Springs then Trinidad and into Raton. From there Albuquerque down to La… I dunno how the fuck you say that name… La Cruses...? After that we just go over the border to El Paso.”

 

“You really think Denver is safe?” Asked Jay. “When the Black Bandanas went on their supply runs, they never went that far south, did they?”

 

To spare fuel, the Black Bandanas only ranged Colorado as far as a two-hour drive would take them. They typically went no further east than Briggsdale and no further south than Loveland; everywhere north of Norfolk was 55er country and they never ventured west into the Rockies – word was that psychotic bands of excommunicated 55ers infested the mountains and preyed upon travellers of Route 14. Those four compass points represented the sphere of Polk’s reach – beyond them the world was one giant question mark. But there were _constant_ rumours about Denver. Wanderers passing Polk by were typically northbound towards Cheyenne via the I-25, _away_ from the state’s capital, and when referring to Denver they often bandied about terms like “war zone” and “bloodbath”, but since most outsiders were forbidden to enter town, no one really knew what that meant. There was only a consensus – Denver was dangerous.

 

“We ain’t going through Denver,” Parker’s spoon pointed out a road running the city’s circumference. “We’ll take the E-470 and drive around it… then loop back onto the I-25 south of the city. From there it’s another straight shot to Colorado Springs,” He spat out an orange loogie. “These beans are cold, fuck!”

 

Jay stood up.

 

“Where’re you going?” asked Parker.

 

“To deuce and leak. Where did you say that restroom was?”

 

Parker pointed to a balcony on the east wall. “Right there, next to the office. And take your piece too, Pee Wee.”

 

Brother Abner’s Beretta m9 sat peacefully by Jay’s sleeping bag. “Why? We checked the place out before we made camp, right?”

 

“Can’t be too careful on the outside,” said Parker. “This might be virgin territory for you, but I’ve been doing this for a _long_ time. Just keep it close.”

 

 **I know** , thought Jay, **I’ve been reading the Cook Book long enough to know that**. Burning shit inside Polk could get Pumpkinhead caught. Burning shit _outside_ Polk was a whole new freedom. There wasn’t any doubt that his experiences with the outside might be the best resource they had to get them south to Mexico. **But he doesn’t have to be so fucking smug about it…** Jay slipped the Beretta beneath his belt. It still had the weight of a full magazine. While Parker put his can of Bush’s Best back over their cookfire of old Playboy mags and twigs, Jay turned on their torchlight. He aimed the beam a metre in front of him and allowed it to guide him across the derelict warehouse floor, directing himself around broken glass, weeded fissures, cigarette butts, old bones, needles, dead mice and thousands and thousands of their little rice-shaped black droppings. Over by the east wall was an aluminium stairwell leading up to the second floor. He found it wobbly when he climbed it, just barely holding onto the framework nailing it to the wall, but it held his weight. Beneath his sneakers crunched the flakes of frost-coloured coloured oxidation that had encrusted the stair treads. **That’s a cool sound** , he thought stupidly.  

 

The restrooms were right where Parker said they were. Jay opened the thin plywood door to a boxy rectangular lavatory with moulding lino flooring and cracked tile walls. The toilet bowl was old and rank, flowering up to the rim with grubby, moss-like fungal growth. **Oh shit!** Jay pinched his nose – it’s smell was sulphurous and repulsive. He didn’t even bother to turn the faucet, he knew no water was running. **Shit**.

 

Luckily enough he didn’t _really_ need to take a shit on that thing. Instead Jay put his 9mm down, unzipped his jeans and squatted down to his haunches to fart Parker’s gooey cum out of his anus. Normally he liked to fall asleep with it still inside him (Parker called it _breeding_ ) because there was an intoxicating feeling to it. It made him feel like… like he was being laid claim to, like he was being owned or possessed. Jay loved it. They used to do it all the time back in Polk. Although Parker liked getting blowjobs more than he liked cornholing, he seemed to get a kick out of it too. _‘You feel me deep in there, Pee Wee? Is it warm?’_ It was like a game with no losers. Most nights the cum leaked out when he was sleeping, and Jay woke up to a cold little puddle beneath his ass. Parker would tease him about it or make stupid jokes about getting him ‘pregnant’ but he didn’t mind. He liked the feeling. He liked to think of himself as something that belonged to Parker, that no one else could have.

 

But playing those games out here was risky. The outside was a dangerous place. The 55ers who ransacked Polk were only a few miles behind them. **We can’t be stupid kids out here** , thought Jay. **Not anymore.**

 

They didn’t have toilet paper in Polk, just re-washed rags, but here Jay didn’t even that, so he cleaned up his asshole with his shirt cuff, then he pinched his nose shut as he un-zipped his now flaccid cock and cut a stream of piss into the musty toilet bowl. It was as he was peeing that he heard the noise; a kind of yawning. Stiff and wooden and circular. Constant. Odd. And it was coming from the next room. Curious, Jay emptied his bladder, zipped up, tucked the Beretta m9 back into his belt, then left the lavatory. As he passed by the balustrade railing he checked on Parker. He dozed atop his sleeping bag, having doused out the cookfire. Jay then turned to the office door. It was slightly ajar. The noise was even louder. He carefully pushed the door open.

 

There was a body hanging from the ceiling.

**Shit…!** “Parker!” Jay yelled. “Get up here!”

 

Jay waved his flashlight at the corpse. It hung from the ceiling fan by a taut noose that still swung in slow, stiff and consistent little circles. Beneath its exposed toenails, turning sallow and green with decomposition, a good 20 inches separated its feet from the floor, the same height as an overturned stool nearby the desk. It wore a sterile white coat like the ones scientists would wear in those old sci-fi comics he and Parker used to read. And there were no signs of a struggle, no bloodstains. This wasn’t an execution. It was a suicide.

 

“What it is?” Parker, shirtless and armed with his father’s Luger, came rushing in. “Look,” Jay said, shining his light on the dead body.

 

Parker sighed. “Is that it? I thought you were in trouble!”

 

“Look at it,” Jay said. “His fucking eye sockets are full of maggots! So creepy... do you think he’s been here long?”

 

“Who cares? He was probably just a wanderer who gave up. Let him rot,” Annoyed, Parker tucked his pistol away. “Are you coming or are you gonna stare at _him_ all night?”

 

The Pastor’s son stalked out of the office. “I’m coming!” Said Jay, his torchlight passing over the corpse’s chest pocket as he followed his friend outside. There was a badge emblazoned on it that read;

 

**Dr. Ennis Musgrove**

**USRP**

 

**********

 

You might remember me mentioning these guys before? Back when I explained to you how the world went to shit. I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you more about them. But first I need you to understand something. In a very twisted way… the only reason I’m even recording this is because of the USRP. Can you wrap your head around that? No? I suppose not. That comes later in the tale. Let me pace myself.

 

The USRP stands for **U** nited **S** tates **R** efertilization **P** roject. It was (is) a branch of the old US government’s Department of Health and Human Services. Its goal was to discover the cause of the Global Fertility Crisis and find a cure before it was too late. As a left-leaning surgeon, my father was very familiar with the politics behind its creation; _“Originally it was called the ‘National Institute for Fertility and Pre-Natal Care’. President Buchanan announced it in 1992 so I’m guessing that the original plans started with the Bush Administration, but most people took it as part of his campaign promise to investigate the Global Fertility Crisis. In ’95 the New York Times did an investigative piece revealing that the NIFPNC consisted of six researchers in a small lab in Annapolis. The President defended himself by saying there were provisions for a larger project in his original ’94 budget, proposals he stripped out to get it through the Senate. By ’96 the HHS Secretary, Donald Saulpaugh (Don Saul we used to call him) unveiled the USRP in Arizona, with at least 20 labs with over 450 researchers. But they never found a cure.”_

 

My father never spoke highly of the organization. He thought of them as a placebo, something the government cooked up to make people think that they were on their feet with the Fertility Crisis. _“I doubt they were any closer to finding a cure than the dozens of other research orgs across the world_ ,” Father had said, _“Britain, Israel, Russia, China and Japan all had their own versions of the USRP. None of them succeeded.”_

 

Danny Mixon believed that science’s failure to come to grips with the GFC was what drove America full steam ahead on the crazy train of Fundamentalism and the militia movement – in a world without hope they gave up on a dying future for the immediacy of the present and the romantic lie of heaven. What I would realize in the coming weeks was that the USRP never gave up.

 

This would’ve been a very different testimonial if they did.

 

**********

 

They woke up and broke camp at first light. They cleared the ash from last night’s fire and hid their bean cans away in an old garbage bin outside the broken fire exit doors. The Ford was where they’d left it, hidden behind a stone outcrop of the building which housed its old (and derelict) generator. Once they packed everything away in the trunk, Jay and Parker climbed into the car and reversed down the slightly sloped gravel track leading down onto the main road. Jay watched the factory go from the passenger’s side. It was a good find for the night. Off road, empty, and secluded from view 3/4ths of the way by a wall of tall boxelders. And someone was kind enough to kick down its signpost on the highway. They passed it by last night at about half a mile off from downtown Fort Collins (blocked off on all inbound roads by abandoned military blockades dating back to the Occupation). It might be a while before they found somewhere else as safe to sleep in.

 

It was a warm day, but the air was cool. Jay rolled the window down and leaned out, letting the winds whip his hair. To their right was an amazing view of the Rockies. The hilly, snow-covered peaks loomed over Fort Collins’ skyline and its surrounding fields and forests. You didn’t really get a view of the mountains in Polk because they were too far off. From there they looked like brown bumps on the fringe of your panorama. From here they were beautiful and imposing. **I’ve never seen them so close before…** he thought. **It’s so peaceful**.

 

“Before she died,” said Jay, “my Mom and my Dad used to go camping up there in the mountains. She was an asthmatic smoker and he said the air would be good for her lungs – that was his excuse anyway. They went during the summer, it was an annual thing. They’d fish in the morning, then bake s’mores by the campfire and drink two bottles of wine in the night. He said they fell in love up there.”

 

“Your mom died when you were born, right?” Asked Parker.

 

“Yeah,” said Jay. He used to wonder if his father blamed him for that. “Giving birth.”

 

“That’s the thing about Moms,” Parker flipped a tape into the dashboard cassette player and pressed play. He kept an eye on the road though. “One way or another they find some excuse not to stick around.”

 

It wasn’t music. It was Octavia Wilkes, in another of Parker’s secret recordings. He turned the volume up.

 

 _“Didn’t they used to tell us lies about ourselves and what we feel?”_ She asked in that husky, Creole-tinted voice. _“And didn’t we trick ourselves so well into giving in? That’s their greatest weapon – not their ability to deceive us but their ability to let us deceive ourselves. They invoke God and preach hate on everything that makes us human. Humanity is a sin in the Christian eye and I know that ‘cause I still got the scars from where my Daddy whipped me when he caught me doing things to myself he didn’t approve of. His morality, their morality, is immoral. Well here’s the time to spit on it and believe me, you won’t ever feel so liberated as the day you burn your first bible. Don’t let them shackle you anymore. Come south, all y’all who hear me.”_  

 

“I ain’t ever heard a woman talk so much sense before,” said Parker. He’d grown up around women that were taught from an early age to be subservient to the men around them. It was their job to cook and to clean for their husbands. “And she’s fucking right, Jay. Cunts like my Dad used to think they knew it all, but they didn’t. They make us be things we’re not, so they can control us.”

 

_“I’m not disgusting, and neither are you. Don’t let anyone tell you that you are. Now’s the time to reject their thinking. It’s sad as hell that it took the end of our world for us to realize what we were doing to ourselves but there’s no better time than now to wise up. Break your mental chains. Open your eyes.”_

 

There were still some Newports left in his pocket. Jay took two. He gave one to Parker, put the other between his lips, and lit them both with a match. “Where in Mexico does she say we have to go?”

 

_“Y’all remember the turn of the century, right? Remember gluing y’all’s eyes to the television screen watching the 55ers rob banks, shoot up churches, and bomb federal buildings, right? Remember the riots in 2001? Atlanta in flames. New Orleans a bloodbath. The lynchings in Montgomery. Bombs blowing holes in Boston…”_

 

“She doesn’t,” said Parker, gruffly, exhaling fumes through his window. “I only taped three broadcasts before her signal died. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

 

 _“Yeah, y’all remember. We all do. My Daddy loved him some Gil Scott-Heron. Whoo-ee, he could’ve worn out the vinyl on_ Winter in America _! But Gil Scott-Heron was wrong. The revolution really was televised, and we sat it out not knowing. We let the psychos and bushwhackers lead the way on life’s last lap like good, loyal, Christian dogs.”_

 

 **Fuck, he hasn’t thought this out at all…** There were moments were Jay felt like screaming at Parker. His plan only got them as far as the Mexican border? Nothing else to go on? 

 

 _“If there’s anyone out there and you hear me what I’m saying, then come south with me and share this new revolution, this revolution of thoughts. Put down your prayer book. Step outside. Know your worth. Claim your last breath. Define ‘you’ as you_ for _**you** , don’t hear them telling you different. It’s only one life – here’s your last chance to really live it.”_

“Hey, you smell that?” Said Parker, stopping the cassette. “It’s water.”

 

There was no gull song or rime, just the scent of babbling waters rushing through a rocky concourse. Jay kept his head out of the window until he spotted a glint of sunshine sparkling off distant waters beyond the interstate. Without even talking it over first, Parker span the wheel at the nearest off-ramp and turned into an eastward dirt track, driving through dust and underbrush past an old abandoned state patrol building all the way to the mossy banks of an offshoot of the Poudre River.

 

“I need a swim,” Parker shut off the engine to spare the gas. “Are you coming with or what?”

 

Jay smiled.

 

He followed the older boy out of the car to the bank where the peeled off their shirts and jeans and shoes and boxers and socks until they were completely naked, then plunged headfirst into the water, giggling. It wasn’t particularly deep, the currents weren’t very strong, and it was clear and white and refreshing, especially with the hot sun’s rays above glimmering off it. It was perfect for swimming. Jay was ecstatic. It was years, maybe as many as ten, since he and Parker last went swimming. There was creek not too far from Polk that Danny Mixon used to take them to (before the Occupation ended and Pastor Evans took over the town). Those were some of the best summers of his childhood. Jay smiled to himself recalling those days as he practiced his long-underused back stroke against the river currents, wheeling his arms overhead and kicking his legs through its waters like fins. Parker paddled near the western river bank, dipping his head in and out of the water and scrubbing it clean of the soot and dirt it’d picked up during their escape from Polk. He did this until his kinky black curls were clean again, then cringed, gripping his ribs tight. Jay waded over to his side. The pebbles felt cool and smooth beneath his bare feet.

 

“You okay?” He asked.

 

“I’m fine,” seethed Parker through clenched teeth. “Guess I ain’t 100% yet.”

 

The swelling around his lip, cheeks and eye had gone down since his fight with Pastor Evans five days ago, but the purple-coloured bruising around his ribs hadn’t cleared up yet. They took off his bandages the night before, since they were getting dirty, but Parker didn’t want to replace them. _We need to go light on our meds_ , he’d said, _until we get to Mexico_. Jay watched Parker’s wet, glistening pecs bob up and down in the water. All was in his mind to press his lips against that plum-coloured bruise. **There isn’t an inch of you I wouldn’t kiss** , he thought, thoughts that pressed on even as the older boy flipped backwards, balled himself up, and dove below the water. Jay didn’t notice where Parker went until he emerged behind him with a heavy, rising splash. “Hey!” Cried Jay.

 

“I ain’t 100% but I’m still faster than you,” grinned Parker.

 

Jay grinned back. “Wanna race me and prove it? Last time, I kicked your ass.”

 

“Oh yeah, and what do I get if I win?”

 

“A blowjob,” said Jay.

 

“I’m gonna get that anyway,” said Parker. “Gimme your Schwinn, you can have my Litespeed.”

 

Jay scoffed. It wasn’t the first fucking time Parker proposed switching bikes to him. It seemed almost stupid for him to care about that now, now that they were riding a damned Escort through the backbone of old dead America, but he serious as an aneurysm. And so, when Pumpkinhead suggested that one lap, from the car to craggy overhang forty yards south of it, Jay swung his arm across the surface, spritzed a haze of water into Parker’s eyes, then shot off ahead of him. Screaming that he was a “fucking cheater” Parker swam after him in pursuit, but to the crag and back he couldn’t make up the distance, which left Jay a smirking idiot when he made it back to the embanked car with Parker tailing him by three metres. He wasn’t even out of breath.

 

“Man, I think we’ve finally found the only think you suck at,” said Jay.

 

“Fuck you,” spat Parker. “What do you want, Pee Wee?”

 

 **Kiss me** , he thought. **Just kiss me once before we die**. “I’ll think about it, loser.”

 

All the swimming made him hungry. If he remembered right, there was a good spot for trout fishing up river that the Black Bandanas used during their old supply runs, and Parker was smart enough to steal a fishing rod from their supplies before they left Polk. He didn’t snag any bait but there were more than enough green drakes and red quills buzzing around their ears to make up for it. The thought of a cutthroat or rainbow trout sizzling over a campfire made Jay swim over to the east bank and climb out of the river. But as soon as his feet found the slope, Parker’s fist clamped around Jay’s ankle and dragged him back down. “Hey!” Jay toppled belly-first onto the wet, pebbly, mossy ground. Parker, launching out of the water, took him by the shoulder and flipped him onto his back. “What the fuck, Parker?” he mouthed out, but when he tried to get up the older boy grabbed his wrists and pinned him back down. Their slickened, naked bodies wrestled for position atop the river bank. Jay, now immobile, watched Parker’s stiffening cock flop up and down as he climbed over his legs and sat down on his thighs. Their wet chests rose and fell together… even their breathing was in tandem.

 

“I was only teasing,” Jay watched Parker’s eyes burn. “I didn’t mean it.”

 

Parker didn’t smile.

 

“I’ll kill anyone who hurts you,” he said. “You’re mine, Jay. And I’ll never let anyone take you from me.”

 

 **Kiss me** , thought Jay. **Oh god, Parker, please just kiss me…**

 

Parker spread Jay’s long legs apart. He was stern-faced and quiet, but his molten copper eyes screamed something his voice couldn’t put into words. He didn’t bother spitting on his hand for lube. The Pastor’s son grabbed his stiff cock head to line it up with Jay’s puckered hole. And then the younger boy shut his eyes and moaned as all seven and half inches plunged deep inside his ass.

 

**********

 

In the end they only caught one rainbow trout, so they decided to take it with them in a cool bag and cook it wherever they next made camp. A few hours later when the sun rose noon high, Jay and Parker dried each other off with a towel before putting their clothes back on, throwing the cool bag inside the trunk, climbing into the Escort and then reversing back onto the dirt track. Parker turned the car around then drove up through the underbrush towards the old state patrol building. But he stopped in its shadow and switched off the gas when he heard something in the distance.

 

“What?” Jay said. “What is it?”

 

Parker held a finger to his lips (“Shush!”) with one hand and pulled out his father’s pistol with the other. Jay went quiet and for a few seconds the car fell into silence… until Jay heard what Parker heard eight seconds earlier – _Ride the Lightning_ – belting out over loud in-car speakers against the whoop and holler of the cadre of deep-voiced men singing along to it.

 

_GUILTY AS CHARGED,_

_BUT DAMN IT, IT AIN’T RIGHT!_

_THERE’S SOMEONE ELSE CONTROLLING ME…_

 

Through the driver’s side window Jay spotted a red, white and blue painted pick-up truck cruising along the long, dusty highway of the interstate. As it rolled by the abandoned state patrol building, he saw a road crew of eight sweaty, muscular men packed into its rear wagon; men armed to their yellow teeth with AK-47s and sawed offs, holstered 9mms and sheathed Ka-bar knives. Two flags flew from its roof. One was the Star-Spangled Banner. The other, pale blue and decorated with fifty-five white stars, was the flag of the 55ers.

 

_DEATH IN THE AIR, STRAPPED IN THE ELECTRIC CHAIR_

_THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING TO ME!_

_WHO MADE YOU GOD TO SAY,_

_‘I’LL TAKE YOUR LIFE FROM YOU’…?_

The pick-up drove up from the northward side of the building and rolled past it towards the south. It didn’t break speed as Jay and Parker watched it steam away through the passenger side window as the roaring music and crazed hollering ebbed into the distance.

 

FLASH BEFORE MY EYES, NOW ITS TIME TO DIE

BURNING IN MY BRAIN, I CAN FEEL THE FLAME

WAIT FOR THE SIGN, TO FLICK THE SWITCH OF DEATH

IT’S THE BEGINNING OF THE END…

SWEAT, CHILLING COLD

AS I WATCH DEATH UNFOLD

CONSCIOUSNESS MY ONLY FRIEND…

 

They were safe. But Parker didn’t dare restart the engine until the 55ers were gone. “Bastards didn’t stop to scavenge the state patrol,” he told Jay. “We’re still in their territory.”

 

**********

 

I wish we never left that river.

 

At time, I didn’t think much of it. It was just one moment in a bunch of other moments that seemed like our new life now. He and I together, roaming the naked American spinal cord, having fun where we could and keeping safe where we couldn’t. Playing and fishing and swimming together as naked as our days of birth, full of reckless abandon, and not a care for the world crumbling around us as we made love upon the river bank. Those were joys I thought would never end. Come whatever Mexico might bring, I had Parker and he had me. We were each other’s strength in the world no matter what.

 

Looking back now, I wished I’d pressed him more. He had more to say, I know it. Even I had more to say, I was just so cowardly I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But in that moment, that moment when he pinned me down on the river bank, God, I’d never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life. I wanted his lips up against mine, I wanted to feel him breathing, to taste the beer and canned beans and Newports on his breath, to caress his tongue with mine and make him moan into my mouth like a whore. I wanted him to make me feel like a virgin again, like some Southern belle lost in the corn fields with her handsome soldier.

 

Sweet Jesus, Parker. I’m only half a fucking man when I’m around you. But damn… it’s such a powerful fucking feeling, _to want_ , especially when your wants go unanswered. 

 

If I told him I loved him, maybe he would’ve said it back.

 

My heart doubts it.

 

But my head wishes I gave him the chance to hear it – after all, you can’t win if you don’t play. Maybe losing isn’t the word ‘no’, maybe losing is never knowing how it all could have gone. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe…

 

No…

 

…let me continue.

 

We waited for that pick-up full of 55ers to pass us by before we drove back onto the Interstate and followed it south. It was such a hot day, as I remember it now, an unusually hot day in an unusually cold spring. We rolled the windows down and tuned the radio from frequency to frequency, hoping we might pick up a spare note from some old station, giving us a hint that some hint of civilization was still out there waiting for us. All we got was static and fuzz. So, Parker popped in a cassette full of Alice in Chains (Dirt) but kept the volume low as he exchanged glances to the road ahead with the rear-view mirror. We drove until the road beneath the Escort started cracking. The towering highway turned bumpy beneath the wheel from old potholes and fragments of rubble broken off over time.

 

I remember Parker yelling, _“What the hell?”_ numerous times (and loudly!) as struggled to keep the Escort from knocking them out of their seats. _“The fuck is up with this goddamned road?”_ He’d say. But he wasn’t paying attention. And when I saw what was ahead of us I screamed.

 

 _“Oh God!”_ I said, _“Parker, stop! Stop! STOP THE FUCKING CAR!”_

 

My screams made him punch the break hard. The wheels screeched to a stop. The two of us rocked forwards then slammed back into our seats. We paused, gave ourselves a minute to catch our breaths, and then Parker not so calmly asked me what the hell my problem was. Rather than tell him I showed him, pointing ahead to the interstate highway… or what remained of it. Parker’s eyes bugged.

 

Something had smashed the overpass into two.

 

There was a chasm, wide for about six yards, a huge chuck on the interstate highway broken clean out off the bridgework. A piled mound of rubble, crumbled cement and broken iron poles and dust, sat more than fourteen feet below the fissure between the two halves of the bridge. And as we looked around we saw something. Signs. Battle signs. They were here and there and everywhere. Bullet holes, spent cartridges, empty smoke canisters, bloodstains, and long decomposed cadavers dressed in military fatigues – there was even a rusty tank marooned in the ditch of a cattle field just a few yards from the pile of broken bridgework. At first, I wondered if it had something to do with the 55ers we saw earlier, but as I looked more closely I realized that the signs were old. The battle dated back to the Occupation, probably during the army’s pull out from Colorado. Not that it mattered.

 

 _“We’re fucked!”_ Parker yelled. _“We’re cut the fuck off from the interstate! God-DAMN-it!”_

 

He spent a lot of time banging the wheel. Okay, maybe not a lot of time, maybe just a couple of seconds. But I guess he looked so funny doing it that I like to remember his temper tantrum lasting longer than it did. And then I took one of his maps out of the glove compartment and asked him to stop beating up our car.

_“There has to be another way,”_ I said, analysing the map. _“Why don’t we double back to that turn off into Route 34? We go west into Loveland and take Route 287 – it runs as far south as Lafayette and from there its just a straight shot east onto the highway around Denver.”_

 

Parker shook his head. _“Fuck that, we’d be going through too many towns. Loveland, Longmont, Lafayette… out here it’s better stay_ away _from people.”_

 

 _“So, what then?”_ I asked.

 

I watched him plot our course with a fingertip. _“Here,”_ he said. _“Right here. We take Route 34, but we take it east, not west. We follow it past Garden City, in Greeley, and from there we drive down Route 85 straight to the E-470 around Denver.”_

 

I didn’t question him. The more I looked at the map the more I realized he was right. His way hit fewer towns which meant less people which meant it was less likely we’d bump into 55ers or bandits. And not just them either. Travellers like ourselves were scavengers, often desperate – and desperation always brings the savage out of people. A starving wanderer with a gun was just as dangerous as a slave-trading militiaman.

 

With our plan set, Parker reversed along the bumpy road until it was level enough for him to turn the car northward and drove us back towards the turn off into eastbound Route 34.

 

**********

 

The Ford Escort was maybe halfway up to Greeley from Interstate 25 when the sun started to fall. Parker tutted. The way he’d planned it they could’ve at least made it as far as Kersey before finding somewhere to pull over and camp for the night, but they’d lost more time than they thought at the river and doubling back from the shattered overpass hadn’t helped either. Fortunately, there was shelter up ahead. Jay spotted a wooden sign knocked into the dirt that said; “Mill Spring, ½” and sure enough, half a mile later, Parker slowly wheeled the Escort into its 10-space parking lot. It wasn’t a town – it was a pit stop on the way to town – with a gas station and drug mart to their left, a two-storey motel up ahead, and an old restaurant with a broken blue sign that said “IHOP” to their right. Parker shut off the engine.

 

“Get your gun and torch out,” he said.

 

Jay nodded, pulling the Beretta M9 out of his belt and the spare torch out of the glove compartment. Both he and Parker climbed out of the car with their guns and battery torches held the way Pastor Evans’ survival training taught them to; pistol arm forward and balanced off the wrist of the torch arm, pistol and torch facing forward. As Jay crept up the gravel track and curb towards the motel door, the Pastor’s smoky baritone voice echoed in his mind -- _“Secure your position, wherever you hole up.”_  

 

The motel door rotted off its rusty iron hinges. Parker carefully pushed it open, making as little noise as possible as his torchlight led the way inside. _“Always tread lightly,”_ Jay recalled. _“You never know who’s waiting in the shade.”_

 

They checked every room. Every bedroom suite, every closet, every toilet and bathroom, they even checked the four dumbwaiters. _“People will hide anywhere they can when they’re scared, and anywhere they should if they’re trying to get the drop on you, so don’t take anything for granted.”_

 

Everywhere they went they looked for signs of life that didn’t predate the American collapse – empty cans, fresh fruit rinds or fish bones, recently burnt kindling, clean towels, abandoned shoes, defensive furniture rearrangements, anything. _“Travellers without a plan tend to hole up in the first place that looks safe,”_ the Pastor once said, _“and they don’t cover their tracks well. You can use that.”_

 

From suite to suite Jay’s torch illuminated no signs of recent travellers, all he saw was dusty unmade beds and rotting rattan furniture, upturned drawers, scattered clothing, dirty towels and occasionally, human bones. _“Don’t worry about skeletons, look out for corpses. If you see one, check for signs of murder. Murders mean murderers...”_ Lack of fresh air lent the motel a musty old stink -- from its mouldy mauve carpets and peeling chequered wallpaper to the motionless ceiling fans and worn-out air conditioning units riddled with cobwebs. Dust coated everything.

 

“All clear,” said Parker, emerging from the last suite. “Let’s go check the stores.”

 

The gas station/drug mart and the IHOP were much the same as the hotel. Empty and derelict and looted of all their worth (but long ago). _“Take whatever you can find that’s of value to you – food, clothing, meds, tools. God’s laws don’t apply to the outside world anymore,”_ The cash registers were empty, the shelves were empty, the storage units were empty, and anything left behind was useless – mainly expired food. _“You’re God’s chosen children – do what you need to do to survive and come back home to Polk where you belong.”_

 

Mill Spring was secure. Jay and Parker tucked their guns back into their belts but kept their torches out. There was nothing but fields and telephone poles as far as the eye could see, no other buildings around the stop for a looter to ambush them from. The only danger was the road – and who else might drive by and decide to spend the night there. Parker rolled up his sleeves and pointed to a wide but secluded alleyway between the motel and the IHOP. “Help me push the car into that alley,” he said. Together they rolled the Escort over the crackled tiles and hid it in the shadows of the pancake restaurant, then covered it up with a sheet of tarp they’d stolen from the warehouse back in Fort Collins.

 

They set up camp in the motel lobby.

 

Most of the rooms stank like death so they avoided sleeping in them. Instead Jay dug up some old but (relatively) clean sheets for them and pulled the soiled cases off two feathered pillows. While Jay rolled out the sleeping mats, Parker broke some chair legs with a hammer, put them into a pile, heaped that pile with some paper and ash, then set it alight. Jay skewered the rainbow trout they’d caught that morning and let it sizzle over the fire. That night they ate bowls of trout and Bush’s Best, shared half a bottle of rum (pilfered by Parker back in Polk) and smoked the last few Newports they had left.

 

They sat around the fire in silence. Parker had something on his mind. Jay didn’t want to ask him what (even though he really wanted to know) he just watched the older boy stare into the flames with his bright and smouldering eyes. **He hasn’t burned anything worthwhile since we left Polk** , Jay thought. **Maybe he’s feeling the itch again.**  

 

“We have to torch this place,” said Parker.

 

Jay froze. “…W-why?”

 

“Maybe it’s nothing, but…” Parker bit his thumbnail. “…I think someone’s following us.”

 

 **What?** Thought the younger boy. “Who? Those guys by the river? Wuhrer’s men?”

 

“I don’t know who. It’s just a feeling. Fuck it,” Pumpkinhead leaned back into his sleeping mat propped up by the feathered pillow and old bedsheets. He folded his hands beneath his head. “Maybe I’m wrong. First time I’d like to be. Heh!”

 

Jay, who lay upon his belly, perched his chin atop his folded arms and watched Parker laze by the fire. He didn’t look worried, but he did look distracted – he wasn’t bullshitting. He wanted to torch the gas stop and cover their tracks east.  “Let’s get some sleep then,” said the Mixon boy. “Get an early start tomorrow.”

 

Parker grinned at the flames and said, “…I don’t want to sleep…”

 

 **Maybe _you_ don’t, but I really need some shut-eye,** Jay had already rolled over onto his side when he thought this, wrapping himself in the white and black bedsheets and dropped his head like a weight onto the pillow – he was more tired than he realized, probably from pushing the Escort into the alley. Sleeping wouldn’t be hard since the motel was so quiet (save for their snapping camp fire and the drone of the cicadas nestled in the shrubbery borne out of the cracked tiles along the parking lot and motel entrance). Jay was already halfway asleep when Parker pulled his shoulder down and rolled him onto his back. **Jesus, he can’t be serious?**  

 

Parker grinned like a fool. He climbed over and straddled the younger boy’s waist and then slowly unzipped his jeans. He pulled his boxers down. And then that swinging seven-and-a-half-inch club of cock shot free from his denims. Jay was tired. But the smell of pre-cum dripping off Parker’s cock _did_ make him hard. “Parker, I pushed your car around and everything… I’m tired.”

 

“Your mouth ain’t,” said the older boy. “Open up.”

 

Suppressing a slight smile, Jay wrapped his lips around Parker’s mushroom-shaped cockhead. He began the day taking Parker’s cum up one end, why not end it taking his cum down the other?

 

**********

 

We woke up the next morning and started setting tinder all over the gas stop. Broken chairs, loose drawers, coffee tables, bedding; anything we found that was light enough to lift with two hands we dragged over to the entrances and dumped in piles. Inside the motel we left trails of dirty old clothes from one room into another, always close to the walls and skirting boards. Dousing the place in gas would’ve been easier but we couldn’t spare what we had in the Escort (and the station was tapped out). Makeshift kindling would have to do. I remember wrapping a thin towel into a tight cord – I knotted the end and lit the knot with my Zippo then threw it into the motel lobby. It landed just shy of the tinder stack. The fire started slowly but once it spread, it spread wide. First the lobby went up, then the service desk and the stairwells, then as the flames climbed up to the second floor the ground floor windows imploded, splashing glass and embers across the lot, which lit up the shrubbery growing through the cracked pavement. Whilst I was watching my handiwork Parker set the IHOP ablaze. Roaring red flames blackened the restaurant into a silhouette, and I beheld the man I love before his devices. He turned and grinned at me like a child who’d found his long-lost favourite toy. He was so child-like in his mania. 

 

He grabbed my wrist and yelled, _“Come with me!”_ as he led me back to the Escort (which we pushed back into the lot an hour earlier). We climbed inside, slamming the doors behind us, then Parker reversed onto the road, drove up by about thirty yards, then reversed again and shut off the engine. From there we watched Pumpkinhead’s work rip through the gas stop. The IHOP roiled in black smoke as the motel fire spread along the line of kindling we’d left leading towards the gas station. We didn’t think there was any gas left but we were wrong, because once the fire found the pumps, a gigantic explosion tore the earth apart. Parker and I fucking jumped in our seats. The whole of Mill Spring went up in a huge black fireball that bloomed into the sky and shat charcoaled debris across the fields. I felt the rumble in my _teeth_ , it was so fucking strong. It was like watching a movie in real life, I can’t describe it any other way. It was so amazing. And when I looked over at Parker (who sat watching the show like a wide-eyed toddler) for the first time I saw what he saw in this. I didn’t feel it as intensely as he did – no one could – but I wanted to be the one to provide it for him, the destruction and the spectacle, and then we could share it together. I wanted to spend the rest of my life putting that stupid sociopathic smile on his face.

 

He didn’t notice me unbuckling his belt or unzipping his jeans – his eyes burned in tandem with the gas stop inferno. I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was make him feel good and keep him near me. I took his stiff cock in my hand and jerked him slow and smooth, and watched his face light up with delight. He bit his lip and groaned _“fuck”_ under his breath, then leaned back into the head rest like he’d had the hardest fucking toke of his life. Even though he throat-fucked me hard the night before he still shot another huge load. It spurted up all over my hand and wrist. _“Holy fucking shit,”_ he whispered to himself, his chest pumping beneath his Led Zeppelin t-shirt, _“that was awesome…”_

 

Don’t think you can’t find love in destruction.

 

Looking back on it now, blowing up Mill Spring was our first big mistake. But hell, it didn’t feel like one when we did it. When Parker’s horny or wants to burn things, nothing stops him – not even reason. And when he has those boiling urges I can’t help wanting to please them. He’s mine. All I want to do is make him happy.

 

 _Neither_ of us was thinking clearly that morning.

 

We watched the black fumes and smouldering rubble for what felt like another hour before we decided to keep moving. We drove on from the rubble of Mill Spring to re-join Route 34, and like we planned, avoided most of the town of Greeley by taking 83rd Ave onto 37th Street and then onto Route 85. The road was boring. Driving was fun (Pastor Evans taught all the Fruit of God how as part of our survival training) but Parker was always the one at the wheel. When I asked him if I could drive for a bit he told me to keep the map in my lap and “stop whining”. We’d smoked out all our cigarettes and we barely had any liquor left, so, like always, the road bored me. I occupied my time staring out the window and watching dead America roll by – abandoned water towers and rusty silos and barren farmland and ditched tractors and empty factories and so on. Boredom. We were still making our way around Greeley when I noticed a huge thunderhead to the east, a big black motherfucker looming low over the fields. I didn’t pay it much mind or bother to worry Parker about it because I figured it would pass us by. But it wasn’t even 9am when the skies around us turned grey and the storm in our rear view caught up to us, not even half a mile out from a tiny town called LaSalle. The roar of thunder came first. It boomed loud over the countryside. Then, as the black clouds passed over us, a torrent of rain hurtled down so hard it struck the windows like tiny little bullets.

 

The front window turned into a rippling puddle. You could barely make out anything ahead, aside from the gravel. Parker turned on the windscreen wipers, but it was no use. _“I can barely see in this shit!”_

 

I asked him to double back to LaSalle. “Let’s wait out the storm there,” I said. He frowned, clearly not wanting to waste anymore time, but if we totalled our ride out there in the boonies then we were fucked – and he knew it. He rolled down his driver’s side window, stuck his head out into the storm, then carefully reversed, spun and drove back towards LaSalle. We drove into the same residential area we left from earlier then pulled into the driveway of the first garage we could find. Parker climbed out of the car with a hammer, yelling at me to get into the driver’s seat (I did). I looked out the window and watched him smash the white painted shutter door’s padlock off in the pissing rain. He rolled it up.

“Come on!” Parker yelled. “Inside!”

 

Nodding, I drove the car inside and he pulled it back down once we were safe.

 

**********

 

The storm only lasted about an hour or two. Jay listened out for the thunder and rainfall as he and Parker dried off inside the car by turning up the heat.  When it finally ebbed away, moving south, Parker climbed out of the car with his 9mm. “Lets keep moving,” he said, “Help me check for supplies and then we go.”

 

There wasn’t much there to steal anyhow. Like most towns and villages you came across nowadays (according to the Black Bandanas) looters had already picked it clean. Jay went through two toolboxes but only found a broken claw hammer inside one and a collection of empty instant noodle packets in the other. Everything else was junk too; an old playmobile and toy car, gardening tools like trowels and cane grippers, a rusty pitchfork, an old snow shovel, etc.

 

 **There’s nothing useful here** , Jay shrugged. “It’s all just shit, Parker.”

 

“Fine,” he belted his Luger. “Lets just get out of here.”

 

The Pastor’s son stuck his fingers underneath the white aluminium shutter and yanked it up. The sun after the storm was so bright that Parker had to shield their eyes from it, but a huge black shadow obscured that light from Jay’s side. When the shutter rolled up all the way they both saw why. It was an oak tree. It was huge, perhaps a yard thick and fifteen yards tall. The storm ripped it from its roots in the weed-ridden strip of grass alongside the driveway and it fell directly into the upper level of the house, smashing open the roof and what looked to be a child’s bedroom. What made it worse was that the tree truck completely blocked off the garage entrance.

 

“Fuck…!” Jay swore. “Oh fuck!”

 

Parker growled angrily. “What the fuck?! Fucking hell! What the fuck are we supposed to do now?!”

 

 **Jesus Christ** , thought Jay. He crawled underneath the tree trunk and backed up down the driveway to see how bad this was. It was _bad_. The trunk was thick and undamaged and too heavy to push out of the way, especially with the crown stuck in the wreckage of the roof/bedroom. If they even tried to drive the Escort into the tree it wouldn’t budge, probably they’d just end up wrecking the hood and fender. This was _really_ bad. “All our fucking supplies are in that car,” yelled Parker. “And it’s at half a tank! Fuck!”

 

“We need a chainsaw. Or a hacksaw. Maybe if we search the other houses we’ll find-”

 

A loud scream cut Jay’s sentence in half.

 

It came from across the street. The Mixon boy turned on his heels and watched as the front door to another townhouse swung open and out ran a frantic, bloodied up middle-aged man, naked from the belt buckle up and handcuffed behind his back. He ran until he stumbled over one of the loose cobblestones in the weedy driveway and fell flat on his face. And then, from out of the same front door, a tall dark-haired boy ran out with a baseball bat in his hands. Jay and Parker ducked beneath the tree trunk to hide and watch. The young man (who looked no older than eighteen or nineteen years of age) caught up to the fallen middle-aged man who then begged him for mercy, “Please! No! Don’t! Don’t do it!”

 

With one swing of his bat, the boy cracked his skull.

 

Jay winced, Parker looked on. The boy with the bat screamed out furiously and rained down blow after blow on the man’s head until it split open like an egg, spilling sallow grey yoke and rich red albumen all over the driveway. After the 22nd strike the boy backed away from the corpse, completely out of breath. He fell onto his ass and dropped the blood-soaked bat; his shoes, shirt and hands all speckled with brain matter and skull fragments. He caught his breath. Then he smiled.

 

“Hey you two!” Yelled the boy. “Come on out! I won’t bite!”

 

 **Is he talking to us?** Jay thought. He watched Parker pull out his pistol.

 

When the boy caught his breath he clutched the bat, stood up, and swung it onto his shoulders. He fixed his gaze firmly on the fallen tree across the road – or more likely the two boys behind it. “You two kids, I see you guys. Come on out, it’s cool. I don’t want trouble.”

 

Parker popped up with his Luger outstretched and propped up with his free hand. The older boy grinned. There was a playful, nonchalant air to him as he spoke. “You’re not gonna shoot me.”

 

Frowning, Parker flicked off the safety. “You sure about that?”

 

He nodded. “Sure am. If you wanted to kill me you would’ve done it while I was on the ground or when I was brain-bashing that fucker over there,” he said. “And you don’t know who I’m with. I could have a whole fucking road crew out here, ready to come running the second they hear a gunshot.”

 

“You’re bluffing,” said Jay.

 

“Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? I guess we’re just going to have to trust each other, huh?” The boy (slowly, now that a gun was on him) put his bat on the floor and carefully kicked it down the driveway. It rolled into the puddled street. “If it makes you feel more comfortable, why don’t you two hold on to that for now? Call it a sign of trust, spud.”

 

Parker whispered for Jay to go get it. There was a lump in the younger boy’s throat. He looked to the boy across the street smiling softly at them, then at the headless corpse by his feet. “What are you waiting for?!” Seethed Parker. “Go get it!”

 

There was no choice. Jay nervously crept into the street to collect the boy’s bloody, walnut-coloured baseball bat. It was sticky with goo and hair.

 

“My name’s Dodge,” he said. “I know, I know. Dumb fucking name, huh? My dad was born in LA, so I’m lucky he didn’t call me ‘Laker’ …do you two have names, spud?”

 

Parker waited until Jay was back by his side before he spoke. “Cut the bullshit. How many people do you have with you?”

 

“Just one,” said Dodge. “He’s inside waiting for me.”

 

Jay (resisting the urge to barf) looked at that corpse again. “Who was that guy and why did you kill him?”

 

For some reason that question made Dodge pause. He frowned for a second, then smiled, a smile that seemed a bit more honest than the one before it. “Finally, one of you starts asking the smart questions. I don’t know his name. He was a 55er and I killed him because he tried to steal something that didn’t belong to him.”

 

“What was that?”

 

“My friend,” Dodge nodded towards the door. “Come inside and you can meet him, spud.”

 

Parker sneered. “Why should we trust you?”

 

“Look, I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m filthy. You’ve got my weapon and you’ve got a gun on me. And if you look closely, you’ll see a shadow in the window upstairs,” Jay and Parker both glanced up and spotted a figure hidden behind the silk curtain of an open attic window as Dodge continued, “Right now he’s got a Glock in his hand and if either of us wanted to kill you he’d have done it the second you reached for your pistol. I need a wash, a beer and some food. Come inside, peacefully, and we can share what we’ve got… or we can shoot each other up in the street and be done with it. Make up your mind.”

 

That made Parker grin. “You’re gonna let me decide, huh?”

 

“Well, I’m just assuming you’re not a moron,” said Dodge, “It’s up to you if you wanna prove me wrong.”

 

The last kid who called Parker a moron walked away with a broken arm, back in Polk. But this wasn’t Polk. And this kid wasn’t Curtis Stanfield. Parker paused a moment, then flicked the safety back on and slipped the pistol behind his belt.

 

“I’m Parker,” he said. “This is Jay. Lead the way.”

 

Jay, feeling relieved, followed Parker across the street (and past the remains of the dead 55er) into the townhouse. Jay gave Dodge back his bat. When they went inside Dodge’s friend from upstairs came down. He was a pale-skinned Hispanic boy, roughly the same age as Jay and Parker, short and petite and skittish. Despite its dark roots his hair was tow-coloured and very faint (almost ghost-like) tumbling over his ears and forehead in wavy snow-blonde bangs. That Glock that Dodge was talking about was real, but the younger kid held it uneasily – which straight away told Jay that he’d never even fired it before. **Dodge _was_ bluffing,** thought Jay. **In his own way.**

 

“It’s okay, Silver,” said Dodge. “Put it away, they won’t hurt us.”

 

The boy looked frail, but he was smart – he kept a sceptical eye on both Parker and Jay as he tucked the Glock beneath the band of his summer shorts. His name was Silver, and he and Dodge led them into the lounge. The townhouse wasn’t cosy. Dust sheets covered all the furniture and there were no photo frames or valuables around except an old black and white television. Dodge (who peeled off his bloodied shirt) and Silver sat in one of the lounge’s two sofas. Jay sat in an armchair. Parker stayed on his feet. 

 

“Want a beer?” Said Dodge.

 

Jay refused, and Parker asked for water instead. 

 

Without being asked, Silver climbed off the sofa and walked into the conjoined kitchen unit on the other side of the room. There was a hatch beneath the panel of an old garbage disposal. Silver opened it and pulled out a bottle of Coors Light and an old Evian. It was when he bent over to get them that Jay noticed something on the back his neck: “55”. It seemed like a tattoo at first but when he looked more closely at it Jay realized it was something else. “That mark…”

 

Dodge noticed Jay noticing it. “It’s a brand, spud. That’s what the 55ers do with their slaves.”

 

“He’s a slave?”

 

Silver came back into the lounge with the two drinks. He gave the water to Parker then gave the Coors Light to Dodge. Then, like a kitten, Silver climbed onto the sofa, folding his legs and bare feet beneath him, and lowered his head on Dodge’s smooth, hairless chest.

 

 **They’re lovers…?** Thought Jay.

 

“He _was_ a slave,” Dodge popped the cap off with his teeth and took a swig. He sighed. “Damn, I never thought I’d taste beer again, wish it was cold though,” He swallowed another. “The 55ers like to call them ‘cattle’.”

 

“You stole him?” Asked Parker.

 

Dodge frowned. “He wasn’t _theirs’_ to steal, spud. I’m from Broken Bow, in Nebraska. My Dad bribed some soldiers to bring my mom and me up north from LA during the Occupation and we set up in my granddad’s cabin. He kept us safe for years. The townsfolk were smart too. They found generators, built log fences around the town to keep out bandits, raised their own cows and pigs and horses. We survived the end of America. Then those fucking 55ers came…”

 

Suddenly (angrily) Dodge threw the empty beer bottle at the hearth. It smashed into pieces. “Hundreds of them. AKs, ARs, 9mms, sawed offs and machetes, they even had fucking RPGs on them. Their Humvees mowed down our fences like paper. They killed anyone who defended themselves and looted each house one by one before they set everything on fire. They killed my daddy. They killed my mom too, when she wouldn’t stop screaming, the bastards shot her in the face. They killed everyone that wasn’t worth making a slave, spud.”

 

The nineteen-year-old then lifted his left arm up to show them the branding beneath his armpit. It said “55”, just like Silver’s. “They didn’t even wait to take me to the market in Cheyenne,” he said. “They took about 20 of us, women and any kids younger than 20, which wasn’t many, just me and two others. They threw us into a convoy with about 40 other slaves. That’s when I met Silver.”

 

The boy cuddled Dodge tighter when he heard his name.

 

“That was where they were taking us -- Cheyenne. Back during the Occupation, right at the end of it all, the soldiers used to blow up interstate bridges and roads to slow down the militias. I guess they must have taken out the I-80 too, because it was a wreck when the 55ers took us there, so they took the I-76 into Colorado instead. When the convoy made it to Fort Morgan for a supply stop, I stole a key off one of the guards and escaped. And I took Silver with me. And then we went west. And now we’re here, spud.”

 

“What about that guy?” Asked Jay.

 

Dodge spat a wad of phlegm that still had the 55er’s blood in it. “Scum. He was a scout. They send them out to look for runaway slaves. I caught him when he tailed us into LaSalle, but he got free during the storm. I couldn’t let him get away. The 55ers don’t give up easy.”

 

Parker drank the water and spat it out. “Ugh! Tastes like shit!”

 

Dodge smirked. “The beer’s better, trust me. Still stale, though. So, that’s our story. What’s yours, spud?”

 

“The same,” Jay said. He didn’t know why but he knew Dodge was telling the truth. It wasn’t their slave brands or the minor details (like the demolished interstate bridges, they’d seen evidence of that first hand) it was his candour. Parker was more cynical, the way he stood scowling by Jay’s armchair with his arms folded, but he was willing to listen too. That was why Jay didn’t mind sharing their own story. “We’re from a town up north called Polk. We protected ourselves for a long time, like you guys in Broken Bow. But-”

 

“But…?”

 

“But it was all a lie,” said Parker. “My father was in bed with some 55ers. He fed their captain, Wuhrer, with our meds in exchange for ‘protection’. Then when someone stole the tithe, Wuhrer sent his men in to wipe us all out. Only me and Jay made it out alive.”

 

There was a lot more to the story than that but none of it mattered out here. It was certainly nothing that Dodge and Silver needed to know. And for the most part neither of them seemed to care. Maybe there was more about them in their past that they weren’t willing to share too.

 

“It’s a hard world out there,” Dodge said, “and pretty soon we’ll all be dead. I said that to my best friend once and he asked me… _‘What’s the point then….?’_ , and to tell you the truth I didn’t have an answer. _Then_.”

 

Parker frowned. “And now?”

 

“…There’s a lady in Mexico called Octavia Wilkes,” said Dodge. “She put out a radio message a few weeks ago calling people to her compound in Mexico. And it’s not just us. There’s others out there who’ve heard her message, outcasts looking for a place they can call home again – and not live in fear. I’ve met dozens of them on the road, spud. They’re pilgrims to her cause and they’re all heading for the border – and we’re going with them.”

 

**********

 


	4. Interstate 25, Part 2

Looking back on that day, on how we first met Dodge, I’m stunned that my thoughts were so small minded. It didn’t occur to me then that we were still in the heart of 55er territory, or that Dodge beating a scout to death might lure more of them to LaSalle. It didn’t occur to me how big of a risk we took in trusting him – or how big of a mistake that could’ve been. Back then all I kept thinking about were two things.

 

One of them was Octavia Wilkes.

 

From the moment we drove through the broken southern gate of Polk’s car wall and went outside into the corpse of the American heartland, I’d only had one thing in mind, to follow Parker anywhere he went. If that meant Mexico, fuck it, we were going to Mexico. But I didn’t really believe Wilkes was real. I thought her messages were a trap or a hoax. I wanted to share Parker’s belief in her, but I couldn’t – not until Dodge and Silver. Octavia’s existence became real for me the second he mentioned her name. That there were others out there (‘pilgrims’, Dodge called them) making the trek south to Mexico as well; that gave me something I didn’t realize I needed – hope. Hope that it wasn’t all for nothing, that this road trip wasn’t going to end with me and Parker dead in a ditch somewhere. It didn’t mean that I believed in what she preached yet, nor did it make it any less dangerous getting to the border, but finding Dodge and Silver made me believe for the first time that there was a future in Mexico for me and Parker. That was my first thought.

 

The second, and probably the dumbest, was that Dodge and Silver were together.

 

Why did that matter so much to me?

 

I still remember that weird twinge in my gut when I watched Silver curl up in Dodge’s arms. _Were they faggots?_ Didn’t they care if Parker and I _thought_ they were faggots? It was so strange to me. I grew up in a town were acting like that in front of others could get you killed… and there they were, all cuddled up on the sofa like a couple of sweethearts. When Parker asked Dodge what he wanted from them, Dodge said a trade. _“We’ll find a chainsaw and help you get your car out of that garage,”_ he’d said. _“In exchange for some food and ammo.”_ Parker wasn’t dumb like me. He kept his wits about him, said _“no”_ to the ammo but _“yes”_ to the food, and he kept his shooting hand none too far from his gun. Me? I couldn’t stop staring at Dodge and Silver. I’d never seen two boys act that way before.

 

It was dark out when we finally finished talking. Dodge asked for Parker’s help in disposing of the body in the driveway, and together they hauled the corpse into a ditch out back in the yard. Silver (who I realized was mute) foraged through the hidden larder that the house’s owners stocked up – probably thinking they might come back some day. He found and opened three cans of Spam, cut them into slices, then fried them on an old battery-powered hot plate that (remarkably) still worked. While they were doing that I spent my time scrubbing blood from the cobblestones. _“Get it clean, Jay,”_ asked Dodge, reasoning that the 55ers chasing them had hunting dogs in their pick-ups.

 

Supper was tense but peaceful. Parker was tight-lipped as he woofed down slab after slab of fried Spam. Dodge, on the other hand, was keen to talk and share what he’d learned about the state of the world (which wasn’t much more than what we knew). _“I think the 55ers control most of the mid-west. Some of the slaves we met came from as far north as Montana. They’ve definitely got Wyoming, Nebraska and Colorado though.”_

 

He seemed to think that the old US government still existed somewhere, reasoning that they couldn’t have just vanished after the Occupation. When Dodge asked us if we knew anything more, I explained to him that our hometown was very secretive and closed off, so we didn’t really know much about what was going on out there. Then, when all the Spam and beers were gone, Dodge asked us where we were headed.

 

 _“Pueblo,”_ Parker said, sharply. _“Some travellers up in Fort Collins said there was a safe town there.”_

 

When I glared at him he frowned back with a look screaming, _“keep quiet”_. Dodge didn’t seem to grasp the lie and wished us good luck.

 

Maybe an hour later Dodge and Silver decided to turn in for the night. Wisely, they brought their sleeping bags into lounge where we’d already rolled out ours. They had their baseball bat and Glock at hand, I had my Beretta and Parker had his Luger. _“Let’s sleep two at a time,”_ suggested Dodge. _“Jay and Silver sleep first while Parker and me take the first watch, then in four hours’ time we wake you guys up and do vice versa. Sound good, spud?”_

 

I tried not to get the impression that he didn’t trust us. He knew we weren’t going anywhere without our car but there was always a risk that we’d try something. Dodge was wary of Parker (less so of me) and I figured that if he was any judge of character then he knew that I went where Parker led. We weren’t friends and we couldn’t pretend to be.

 

We followed his plan. Parker and Dodge sat on opposite sides of the lounge with their weapons close by as Silver and I got some sleep. It wasn’t a particularly good one, if I recall, and when Parker woke me up a few hours later I was only half asleep. He tucked his Luger away. _“Don’t take your eyes off him for a second,”_ he whispered, climbing inside his sleeping mat and puffing up the pillow we took from Mill Spring. He settled into a nervous sleep as Dodge and Silver kissed each other good night (for the second time). I felt my cheeks getting red. Then the Nebraskan boy turned in. When the two of them eventually started snoring, it left Silver and I to keep watch for 55ers (and each other). It was a dull, boring watch. At one point we heard what sounded like a woman’s scream but when we rushed out to the yard we found a dying fox, yelping by the back fence. When I put a kitchen knife through its neck to end its pain, Silver looked at me like I was crazy. _“It was making too much noise,”_ I said. **And I haven’t come this far just to be a slave.**

 

After that it was just a boring night. Post-storm LaSalle was silent and empty save for the chirps of the cicadas nestled in the weeds and shrubbery growing up through the cracked stone sidewalks and stoops and driveways. I spent most of my time thumbing through a dog-eared paperback copy of The Silmarillion that I found underneath a coffee table (and took a leak maybe two times) as Silver busied himself sewing up a tear in Dodge’s bloodstained shirt.

 

I don’t know when I dozed off. Maybe two hours into my watch, maybe less. I don’t know. I didn’t realize that I’d fallen asleep on the sofa until I’d woken up halfway. My eyes were blurry and crusted. Tired and groggy, everything was shapes and mumbles at first, and then I managed to make out some whispers in the fog.

 

 _“I get it,”_ it was Dodge’s voice. _“Babe, you don’t have to trust them. They’re gone tomorrow and so are we. I promised to take you to Mexico and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”_

 

When my eyes opened, I saw Silver mounting the middle part of Dodge’s sleeping bag, right where his crotch would have been. He had his palms flat on the ground and his pale lips hovered an inch over the older boy’s. He smiled sadly. _“We’re gonna be fine,”_ said Dodge. _“Kiss me.”_

 

And Silver kissed Dodge with a tenderness I’d only ever seen between the married old folks. It was such a small thing, to kiss, but it was a sweet thing too and when I looked at them I felt… well… jealous. I’d given more blowjobs than I could count at that point, but I’d never been kissed before. Parker hated it, and the last time I tried to kiss him he got mad. But what was so terrible about it? Why couldn’t he kiss me? He’d had my throat, my hands and my ass (even my feet once) so why couldn’t I have that?

 

**********

 

The following morning was cold but bright. There were some packets of instant coffee in the larder. Dodge boiled some water in a banged up old pot and made four cups before they got to work at sun up. They split into two pairs (Dodge and Jay in one, Parker and Silver in the other) and went from one house to the next, kicking in each door to rummage around for a hacksaw. Aside from some broken furniture and old electrical appliances, televisions and microwaves and the like, every townhouse was empty, all looted from top to bottom years ago. Eventually though, Parker and Silver found a panel hacksaw in relatively good condition. They spent the rest of the morning taking turns sawing through the massive tree trunk that the storm brought down over the garage. Though it took some time they cut the tree in half and rolled the trunk out of the way.  

 

Parker brought the Escort out of the garage. Honouring his half of the bargain, Jay popped the trunk and gave Dodge and Silver some of their rations; three cans of beef and beans and two cans of Spam, four bottles of water, one of their six baggies of rice, and some of the potatoes from Polk’s last harvest. They also split one of the last loaves of bread Sister Magda baked before the 55ers’ attack. There was a silver-painted, slightly banged up ’91 Buick Roadmaster parked in the driveway across the street. Silver packed the food into its trunk. Dodge sat on its hood, arms folded and smiling. He’d replaced his bloodied shirt with a white hockey jersey, and a brown leather strap across his back with a holster big enough to fit his bat. “You sure you don’t want to come with us, spud?”

 

“Thanks,” said Jay. “But… we need to go this our own way.”

 

Parker stuck his head out of the driver’s side window. “Pee Wee, lets go, we’ve waisted enough fucking time here,” He started the engine.

 

Dodge patted Jay’s shoulder. “Good luck. Avoid Denver if you can, I’ve heard some fucked up stories about what’s going on down there. I hope Pueblo works out. And…” the older boy leaned in closer as he whispered it, “…keep your guard up with _that guy_.”

 

He meant Parker.

 

Dodge exchanged a glance with the Pastor’s son then went over to the Roadmaster as Silver climbed into the passenger side and buckled up. Sighing, Jay lumbered into the Escort and slammed the door shut. Parker looked over at him as he waited for the Roadmaster to go first, hands at the wheel. “…What did that cocksucker say to you?”

 

“Nothing,” said Jay. “He just wished us good luck.”

 

Parker sneered. He watched the Dodge and Silver’s Buick reverse and drive off down the street. Only once they were gone did Parker twist the keys in the ignition and get the engine humming. It was midday now, with a hot sun bearing down on them. They only had another six or seven hours to drive before it got dark again.

 

“Hey, Parker?”

 

He turned the wheel, pulling them out of the driveway and onto the road. “What?”

 

“Why did we lie to them?” Asked Jay. “They’re going to Mexico too, we could’ve helped each other out.”

 

Parker scratched his curly hair. “You still don’t get it, do you? You can’t trust _anyone_ out here. Yeah, maybe they’re two random kids on their way to Mexico for the same reason we are. Or maybe they’re bullshitting robbers who gave up when we didn’t give them a chance. The point is… _I don’t know_. And I ain’t taking any risks. We gotta look out for ourselves, Jay. Until we get to Mexico, we’re on our own.”

 

*********

 

 _“Until we get to Mexico, we’re on our own,”_ he said.

 

Tch.

 

Back then I really believed him. Part of it, if I’m honest, was that I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t survive without a father or a safe town to call home – not unless I had Parker. But the better part of it, the most important part of it, was that I _wanted_ to believe him. I wanted this to be just about us.

 

More fool me, huh?

 

When Dodge said “Keep your guard up with that guy” it didn’t really register with me at the time. I thought he meant that Parker might hurt or cheat me, which was bullshit, and if he knew how long we’d known each other he’d _know_ it was bullshit. But that wasn’t it. What Dodge really meant was: _you can’t trust him_.

 

Whoever you are, if you’re listening to this, understand that I now I wished I’d listened.

 

Betrayal has a bigger appetite than cancer. It just eats and eats and eats away at you until there’s nothing left at your core except raw, naked anger. But it’s a hell of a motivator too. See where anger can take you when there’s nothing left and all those secrets you hid from yourself about who you really are and what you’re truly capable of suddenly spill out. See what it leaves of you. Betrayal is the only thing that can kill love.

 

And I never saw it coming.

 

**********

 

The sun was terribly hot that day. Far too hot for springtime. Considering yesterday’s terrible storm and the icy cold nights not a week earlier, when Danny Mixon was still alive, and Polk still thrived and 55ers were throwing the severed heads of dead blacks over its walls; the sudden turn in heat was odd. Jay rolled down the passenger side window of the Ford Escort and popped the first button of his shirt, then loosened his collar. There was a carton of menthols in the glovebox (something Parker found in one of the LaSalle townhouses when he and Silver turned them upside down for a hacksaw). Jay lit two, gave one to Parker and kept the other from himself. He inhaled deep then exhaled out the window then watched the smoke trail away on the winds as the Escort cut a path across the beaten gravel rolling through the Coloradan fields. He saw a derelict high school and old truck stops blown to pieces by past explosions; abandoned dairy farms scattered with cow bones, water towers rusted into collapse, broken satellite dishes hanging by their wires or rusting off inert radio towers, their purpose long served and ended. He watched, piece by piece, the long unused infrastructure of an entire world gradually decomposing along his way.

 

 **My father was right** , thought Jay. **This country is a graveyard.**

 

“Hey,” said Parker, “They’re no lakes or streams nearby so we’ll have to forage for more food.”

 

Jay took another puff. “You said have we have enough food to last us until Raton.”

 

“Not anymore,” said Parker as he pulled the Escort over. The wheels beneath them crunched to a halt. Parker shut off the engine and climbed out. When Jay asked him what he was doing, Parker told him to “look at the dashboard” – they were almost out of gas. **We’ve been on the road for days** , thought the younger boy as he lit up a new cigarette with another struck match. **But we’re not even past Denver yet…**

 

“SHIT!” Screamed Parker.

 

Jay poked his head out the window. “What’s wrong?”

 

“We’re out of gas!”

 

 **That’s not possible** , Jay tossed his cigarette and climbed out of the Escort. “You took two extra gas cans from the Black Bandana barracks, right?”

 

“Yeah and they’re gone!” Parker tore through the remaining supplies inside the trunk, the food, the water, tools, spare clothes, the hunting rifles, but the gas cans weren’t there. “FUCK!” He screamed, slamming the trunk shut. “It was that fucking cunt Dodge, he played us! HE _FUCKING_ PLAYED US! He didn’t want our food, he wanted out fucking fuel and he stole it from right underneath our fucking noses!”

 

“Are you sure he-”

 

“I told you!” Yelled Parker. “I TOLD you we can’t trust anyone out here! Damnit! Damnit! DAMNIT!”

 

Jay didn’t want to believe it, but it did make sense. Dodge and Silver’s commandeered Roadmaster ran on gas just like any other car – but like the Black Bandanas used to say, fuel is rarer than mercy on the outside. When they took shelter from the storm with that captured 55er, no doubt one of them would have spotted the Escort pulling up into the garage and hatched their plan when that oak tree crashed into the townhouse. Who knows, maybe they even risked those crazy winds and helped bring it down? Either way they took their chance and it paid off for them. Parker was, in every way, _infuriated_. He slammed his hands down hard and repeatedly on the trunk, screaming Dodge’s name and threatening to choke or crush or slit or slash his throat if they ever ran into each other in Mexico.

 

Jay took his eyes to the road. Abandoned vehicles sat up and down the 85, upturned trucks and Fords and Chryslers and the like, deflated at the wheel and browning over with rust like old apples left to bake and decay beneath the sun. None looked like they had any gas left to siphon.

 

“There _has_ to be a gas station nearby,” said Jay. “Lets just take our bikes and go find one.”

 

They had the Schwinn and Litespeed strapped tight to the roof of the Escort by a spool of nylon climbing rope and spring lock carabiners. Parker banged his fist down one last time. “…What about the Escort? We can’t just leave it here, we’re still in 55er territory. All our fucking supplies are in this car.”

 

Jay pointed northeast to that old high school that they passed by earlier. The land was flat enough that you could still make it out in the distance if you squinted hard. “There,” he said. “We hide it there then head back out.”

 

There was a look of scepticism Parker sometimes had that frightened Jay – the kind of look that objected to his ideas out of hunches and suspicions instead of reason. It was a look he tended to get when they argued. Strangely enough, not this time though. The Pastor’s son growled angrily. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

 

The high school was about half a mile back up the road. It took nearly three hours for Parker and Jay (who dusted their hands with broken gravel) to push the Escort back there. Gritting and groaning, they struggled with it for around 50 yards, took a break, pushed for another 50 yards, took another break, and so on and so forth, until they made it to the high school.

 

The campus grounds were far bigger than Polk High’s. Built up out of three four-storey high buildings shaped together like a ‘U’, it had a schoolyard in the centre and a computer lab/library behind that, alongside an old gym nestled next to a huge football field, which had transformed over the years into a densely weeded thicket. Jay and Parked pushed the Escort up the gravel track off Route 85 into the car park at the campus’ east-facing entrance, where around thirty or forty other parked cars sat derelict. Catching his breath, Jay suggested covering it up with their roll of tarp in the backseat. Parker refused. “It just makes it stand out more,” he said. Then he pulled out his Luger.

 

“What’s wrong?” Asked Jay, watching Parker’s eyes tick from sight to sight as he studied his surroundings.

 

“I don’t like this place,” he flicked off the pistol’s safety. “Look at it. High walls, isolated, it’s probably got an old generator somewhere in there... perfect place for bandits to hole up. But it looks empty.”

 

Jay studied the campus over and saw that he wasn’t wrong. Aside from some broken windows and ledges and drain pipes, its white-painted walls were sturdy. The roofs (and upper floors) provided clear vantage points for both surveillance and sniper fire. There were no other buildings nearby to set up raids from, and there were only a few entrances; one at the front and the footpaths into the campus by the football field (likely fenced in). This place was perfect for a large group of men, bandits or 55ers, to make a base out of.

 

“We can’t leave the Escort here until we know its safe,” said Parker. “Let’s go check it out.”

 

It was the biggest building Jay had ever seen. And the more he thought about it, the more he worried about what might be waiting for them in there. **But I can’t back out now** , thought Jay. **And I can’t let Parker go in there on his own**. There was no choice. He had to go. The younger boy sighed, cocked his 9mm, then went and got their torches out of the Escort as Parker led the way up the car park to the high school’s front entrance.

 

Dusty beams of daylight lit the lobby through its smashed in front windows, the glass shards still littered a wide floor of cream and maroon-coloured tiles. There was an entrance desk broken in half by an old air conditioning unit that had broken loose from the low-hanging ceiling. Jay and Parker passed it by, flicking their torches on as the path ahead grew darker where the light couldn’t reach. They entered a dark corridor. Dented lockers lined the brick and pillar walls. Some still had old knapsacks and book bags crammed inside them. Most were empty. There were trophy cases nearby, too, filled with silver and gold commemorating forgotten victories of past championships, and old bulletin boards with faded paper flyers about afterschool clubs and the science fair and cheerleader try outs and a canned food drive for the homeless and so on, still pinned to them. There was a big blue banner that said, “Go Cougars!” in white lettering that swung limply from hooks in the ceiling tiles. The windowed doors into each classroom were all sealed shut.

 

Jay and Parker silently followed the corridor to the end of the hallway. To the left was a porticoed walkway towards the west wing, to the right another porticoed walkway to the east wing. Directly ahead were two push bar doors beneath a large black sign that said AUDITORIUM. A pool of chains and an open padlock sat at the threshold before it. Parker flashed his torchlight over them.

 

“Someone chained these doors,” He said. “Then someone else came by and unlocked them.”

 

 **And you want to find out why** , thought Jay with a sigh. There was no stopping him now. The younger boy tucked his pistol away and pressed his palm flat against the door to open it, whilst his torch hand guided his way in. It was so dark inside the auditorium that it was almost impossible to tell its purpose, back before the collapse. It was only when Jay and Parker flashed their torches around the room that they saw its uglier, newer purpose.

 

Corpses.

 

Hundreds of them. 

 

A nine-foot high pile of human remains thrown on top of one and other between the stage and the first row of seats, an obelisk heaped tight with protrusions of cracked limbs and limp cocks and rotting tits and clawed fingers and toes and noses and heads. Jay nearly threw up. Parker, stone-faced, flashed his torch across the room to a nearby blackened pile, smaller and shorter than the mountain of corpses. It was difficult to tell what the slag-like substance was (or it would have been for someone other than Parker) until he noticed first the singe marks on the moulding carpet around the pile, then after that, hundreds of little coin-shaped black fragments dotting the carpet more widely – burnt buttons.

 

“I don’t get it,” said Parker. “They burnt the clothes but not the bodies?”

 

“What the fuck…!” Blubbered Jay. “Oh God, what the fuck!”

 

Parker flashed his light on the corpse pile again. “Quiet,” he said. He inspected the skins, which were taut and marbled and browning. The air there was also cold, there were no flies or maggots, and there was no stench. “It ain’t fresh,” explained Parker. “They did this years ago… just after the Occupation, I’d guess. No more soldiers, no more rules.”

 

Jay composed himself, spitting the taste of bile out of his mouth. “For what…?” He said. “Why the fuck would anyone want to do that?”

 

“Beats me,” Parker turned heel. “Let’s keep moving.”

 

They carefully shut the doors behind them. On either side of the hallway, where the porticoed walkways led to the two wings of the campus, there were stairwells leading up. Parker picked the one on the right and led Jay up the dusty steps to the second floor, then the third, and finally the forth. Here, the east-facing building was much more dilapidated, with sections of the ceiling frame crumbling out and loose wiring hanging out of the gaps like ropes of liana. The walls were black with damp. Moss and mushrooms and fungus grew out of patches of carpet where the roof had simply caved in on itself, letting light and rain fall from the skies above. The windows along the uppermost corridor were dirty black and pockmarked with bird shit but unbroken. The light they provided was minimal but just enough for them to see with. Jay and Parker turned off their torches and followed the path all the way down and around to the front building’s rearmost wall where they found the Principal’s office.

 

“What are we doing here?” Asked Jay.

 

“Looking for keys, Pee Wee,” said Parker. “During the Occupation they would’ve shut the school down and locked everything up tight. If this place ain’t been used recently then we’re gonna need them to get around.”

 

He gripped the door handle, but it wouldn’t turn. “Shit, it’s locked.”

 

“Tell me we’re not camping out here tonight?” Said Jay.

 

Parker shrugged. “If its all clear and we can’t find any gas before sun down then yeah. Grow some fucking fuzz on your balls, Jay.”

 

The older boy kicked the door in. The crash reverberated down the corridor as the door swung off its hinge, back and forth. Inside, the office reminded Jay of his father’s room back home – the mahogany desk and three cushioned chairs, aluminium filing cabinets, and wooden bookcases. There were watercolour paintings and plaques of excellence mounting the walls. The window behind the Principle’s desk gave them a good view of the internal campus grounds. Down below the weedy schoolyard had more marbled old corpses scattered over its turf. Some of them wore military fatigues. 

 

“See those soldiers?” Parker pointed them out to Jay. “We better check their gear before we go. They might have some ammo or weapons on them.”

 

Someone behind them clapped, mockingly.

 

“Clever boys,” he said. “Real fucking clever.”

 

Before Jay even turned around a thick hand clamped around his mouth and yanked him into a tight grip, dragging him off his feet like a doll. Jay screamed between the man’s fingers and looked to a stunned Parker, who dropped his torch and went behind his belt for his Luger, until a cold hard gun barrel pressed up against Jay’s right temple. “Don’t you fucking do it, kid! Don’t you reach for that piece or I swear to God I’ll blow your friend’s motherfucking brains out! You hear me? Now put your hands on your head and kneel down!”

 

He was serious.

 

Parker, for the first time in Jay’s life, backed down from a fight. He slowly put his hands on his head and went to his knees. A second man, a shaggy-haired cunt in slacks and a string vest, came up behind Parker, took his Luger, then yanked his hands behind his back and cuffed them. Jay’s attacker did the same, shoving the boy down to his knees (taking his Beretta) and cuffing him. They both had AK-47s strapped to their backs. And then, a third and final man walked into the Principle’s office. Tall and thin, with closely cropped blonde hair and an eggshell-coloured leather shearling, the leader of the posse approached the two boys with a victorious smirk. He knelt to meet them at eye level. Beneath the folds of his jacket poked the wooden grip of a holstered .357 Smith and Wesson revolver.

 

“I don’t know who trained you,” he said, “but he did a good job. It took me three days to catch you little bastards.”

 

Parker, sneering, somehow kept his cool. “…Who are you?”

 

“I’m Hunter,” he spoke with a syrupy Southern drawl. “My pals over there are Clive and Wil. Now. I believe y’all two boys may have pilfered some merchandise which by rights belongs to my daddy, a none-too-pleasant man by the name of Wuhrer. You may have heard of him?”

 

 **55ers** , Jay shivered. **They found us…!?**

 

“A frightful bastard, that one. It never did pay to piss off my daddy, you hear me tell ya,” Hunter eyed Parker. “Shame your father, the dear old pastor, didn’t pay that wisdom much heed. I don’t know which one of ours killed him, but they spared no quarter…”

 

Parker didn’t flinch. “What do you want?”

 

Smiling, Hunter stood up. “Oh, come on now, you’re a bright young spark, you know very well what we want,” and then his eyes ticked towards Jay, “Before the untimely demise of your town there was a deal in place. A boy by the name of James Mixon was to be offered up to us as cattle in recompense for your failure to pay your monthly tithes. Well, unfortunately for y’all… said deal still happens to be in place.”

 

The 55er pulled one of the principle’s chairs from the desk and sat down before the kneeling Jay and Parker, slinging one leg over the other and threading his fingers together. “My father ordered me to collect on what’s due and that I have. Now, I’ve cleaned out your Ford. All that food, clothing, tools and weapons? They’re mine now. My boys are driving it all back to my camp as we speak. Polk is dead. Y’all got nowhere to run to and nothing to run with. So, understand it plain when I say that from this moment on your lives are no longer your own. Y’all two are _property_. Y’all are mine and my daddy’s to do with what we please, you hear?”

 

Jay and Parker kept silent.

 

Smirking, Hunter took a red apple out of his coat and cut a slice out of it with a pocket knife. Jay recognized it from the stash of food he and Parker escaped from Polk with. This man wasn’t bluffing. “Now,” his cheek bounced up and down as he chewed. “Before we take y’all two back to Cheyenne with us I have me a couple questions I wanna ask, if you don’t mind. Where in the world were y’all headed for?”

 

Jay and Parker kept silent.

 

Hunter cut another slice. “What about those two cattle y’all met over in LaSalle. Where were _they_ headed?”

 

Jay and Parker kept silent.

 

“Don’t wanna talk? And here I was thinking we had us an understanding. Okeydokey, Smokey.” He threw away the apple core and pulled out his revolver. His eyes fell on Parker but aimed the barrel at Jay. “Grease your lips or I’ll put a cap in your friend’s knee.”

 

Parker smirked. “…Do it.”

 

 **WHAT?!** Jay’s head spun around. He looked at Parker. And Parker looked serious. And Parker didn’t even blink as he and Hunter Wuhrer locked eyes (and traded smiles) like it was just a pissing contest between the two of them. For the first time since the Black Bandanas shot his father dead in Polk, Jay Mixon felt his blood run cold. **Parker, how could you…?**

 

Hunter smirked. “Clever, clever, clever boy. You _are_ your daddy’s son, ain’t ya?” He lowered the revolver. “Okay then. There’s more’n one way to make a canary sing. We all are gonna do this a different way. Clive? Wil? Would y’all two be so kind as to escort this plucky young buck down to our pick-up? I’d like to share a few private words with Mr Mixon here.”

 

Just like that, Hunter’s two henchmen grabbed Parker by both his forearms and dragged him up to his feet. He tried to make eye contact with Jay, but Jay couldn’t bring himself to look back at him. He looked away.  Then as Clive and Wil marched him out, Hunter whispered something into Parker’s ear. Jay didn’t hear it. But whatever it was it sent Parker into a fury. He started screaming and shouting and kicking until Wil gave him a pacifying slug him in the gut. Then they dragged him away and shut the door.

 

“Your friend doesn’t think too much of ya, does he?” Taunted Hunter.

 

 **He said he’d kill anyone who hurt me…** thought Jay, bemused. **Dodge warned me… he warned me…**

 

Jay lost himself in his own thoughts until he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head. It was Hunter, grabbing himself a fistful of Jay’s wavy brown hair and using it to yank him up to his feet. Hunter span Jay around by his shoulders and made him face the desk. “Hear me well, boy. It’s just you and me now. You hear? Ain’t no one else out here who can help you. Now you’ve come far, I’ll grant you that, but this is a fucking fork in the road. Hey! You hear me? _This is a fucking fork in the motherfucking road_. One ends with me gouging out your eye with a spoon and the other ends with your two beautiful baby blues intact. So, what’s it gonna be? You wanna be dumbass like your friend or do you wanna walk outta here with two eyes? Huh? You gonna be a moron or are you gonna listen?”

 

“…I-I-I’ll listen,” whispered Jay. “I’ll listen…”

 

“Good,” said Hunter.

 

Jay, trembling, heard Hunter tinkering with his cuffs. Seconds later, he felt a sudden sense of relief as they fell off his wrists. He didn’t realize how tight they were. But before he got even remotely comfortable Hunter grabbed him by the throat from behind. Jay froze. “I was watching you two,” he said softly. “I watched you spread your legs open in Fort Collins, moaning in the dirt like a whore… I know what you are, you goddamn sodomite. How many cocks have you sucked? Huh? How many men have been inside you…?”

 

 **Just one…** “Please don’t hurt me… I’m begging you...”

 

Hunter smirked, audibly, then let him go. He stepped backwards and slumped into his prior chair, spreading his legs wide. “…Turn around.”

 

The boy turned to face him.

 

“Take off those clothes.”

 

A cold sinking fear oozed down Jay’s spine. It was a fear borne of hopelessness, and the knowledge that you were powerless to prevent what was coming. As the boy stood shivering in his shoes he saw the grip of Hunter’s .357 lulling out from the folds of his coat. It was the kind of calibre that could stop a bear in its tracks. One shot, depending on the spot, could turn his guts out or liquify his brain or blow off his legs. Just one shot. It didn’t matter that he was uncuffed. He had no weapons. He was helpless.

 

Jay suppressed a sob and unbuttoned his shirt.

 

“Slowly,” Hunter breathed deep and heavy. He slipped his hand into his jeans. “Slowly…”

 

One by one, and slowly, Jay popped his shirt buttons until he could pull it off his left arm as Hunter began stroking himself. The bump in his denims went up and down and he commanded Jay to take off his own jeans next. The boy reluctantly kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, then pulled them down to his ankles and stepped out of them.

 

“Give me ya briefs.”

 

Jay hesitated, then hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic and pulled them down the thin hair around his legs. His flaccid cock, surrounded by a thin bush of ginger fuzz, wobbled at his crotch as he gave his briefs to Hunter. It still had cum stains from the day Parker fucked him on the banks of the Poudre. “Come closer.”

 

Shivering from cold and fear, Jay complied.

 

“Kneel.”

 

He did that too.

 

Now on his knees, and between Hunter’s denimed legs, he found himself a helpless spectator as the southern militiaman peeled back the fold on his jeans and pulled down his zipper. He wasn’t wearing anything below. His cock, six inches of thick, veiny flesh, slung out of the hole. It was already _dripping_ with pre-cum. From the smell alone Jay could tell Hunter hadn’t had sex in months. The 55er sighed deep and heavy.

 

“Suck it,” he groaned.

 

Jay froze again.

 

Hunter snatched his hair, again. “What did I say, son? About a fork in the road? Open ya goddamn mouth.”

 

He didn’t know what possessed him. He didn’t know where it came from. He didn’t even know he was saying it until he was, but said it he did – “No,” and then, “I can’t…” and then came the fury. Hunter’s fist was like a thunderclap. And suddenly Jay saw lights as a horrifying, fiery pain exploded on the left side of his face and threw him onto his back. He cried out, grabbing his face, tears streaming, but Hunter, now furious, grabbed another fistful of his hair and hauled him up to his feet, spinning him around, and then slamming him down over the Principal’s desk, belly first. When Jay tried to buck free Hunter pinned him back down by the neck and violently shucked his denim’s down his legs.

 

“Oh God please!” Screamed Jay, “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!”

 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Roared Hunter, spitting a phlegmy wad down the crack of Jay’s ass. “Get used to pain if ya ain’t gonna follow orders, ya little faggot!”

 

A patter of semi-automatic gunfire ripped through the outer corridor.

 

Hunter froze where he stood, listening out, his black jeans around his boots, his engorged cock jutting an inch off his father’s slave’s wrinkled pink hole. Jay was so scared he didn’t even hear it. He didn’t stop crying until Hunter let him go and yanked his pants back up. The 55er flattered his back against the wall beside the door and pulled out his .357 magnum. A second burst of fire, and a death cry, followed by silence. Jay, misty-eyed, rolled off the desk. Hunter peeked through the glass window to see what was going on. A third burst of gunshots ripped through that glass and took half of Hunter’s shoulder with it. He screamed. Blood and bone fragments splattered the office wall as his tall body flopped to the ground, bleeding out through his mangled shearling.

 

The office door swung open. It was Parker, awkwardly carrying one of the 55ers’ banana clipped AKs in his cuffed hands. “You okay, Pee Wee?”

 

**********

 

It took me a few minutes to put my clothes back on. Parker asked me if I was alright. I told him I was fine.  He asked me if Hunter touched me. I said I was lucky, that he never got the chance. The office stank of blood. I remember hearing Hunter scream when the blood in my ears stopped thumping. When the AK floored him he almost bled out, seething through his yellow teeth. He was lucky. Parker didn’t hit any vitals. But then, for some crazy reason, Parker put an old coat from the Principal’s chair around the bastard’s shoulder and tied it there by the arms. I asked him why.

 

 _“We’re keeping him alive,”_ he said. _“For now.”_

 

Hunter was in too much pain to complain, I think. I don’t even remember what I was thinking when he told me that, that’s how loopy my mind was, all I remember doing was what Parker told me to do. After I uncuffed him with the keys in Hunter’s pocket, Parker and I took him by the arms and half-walked/half-dragged his ass past his dead buddies Clive and Wil, down the stairwells, through the lobby and out to a parked pick-up truck. We threw him groaning into the back. The Ford Escort was where we left it but the 55ers picked it clean, just like he’d said. There was nothing left in the trunk except an oily blanket. Parker, with the AK-47 still slung from his shoulder, climbed into the driver’s seat of the pick-up. I joined him on the passenger seat, wishing to a God I didn’t believe in that I never again set eyes on that high school for as long as I lived.

 

**********

 

“We were about halfway down to the second floor when I came too,” said Parker. He had a hand on the wheel and a foot on the gas. He spoke as if recalling a stick ball game back in Polk, “I had fucking blood in my teeth. First thing I tasted! Then I hear these two guys talking to each other, _“these young boys fetch a good price on the market, shame we won’t get our share,”_ the fucking retards. But as soon as I came to I see my 9mm in the guy’s belt, right? So, I KICK the other dude in the balls and he starts fucking howling the motherfucking school down! But he’s down! Then I reach over and grab my Luger from the first guy’s belt as he’s trying like a scared bitch to get that AK-47 off so I pepper him with five fucking shots to the chest!” Parker made a little gun sign with his free hand as he drove, “BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! He goes flying. But the other guy has his AK ready, so I roll out the way and grab the first guy’s AK, and I run upstairs so I can get the fucking high ground, right? Like an IDIOT the guy follows me. As soon as he turns the corner I let loose on him with that thing like it’s Christmas at the shooting range. Shit! I ain’t never seen so much blood.”

 

It was dark out. The road ahead was rough and potholed, it bumped the pick-up hard. They heard Hunter groan laboriously in the back. Parker glanced over his shoulder quick to make sure the bastard hadn’t slipped his ropes -- sure enough he still bounced around in the back, helpless as a stuck hog. Blood had completely soaked through the jacket that Parker tied around his shoulder wound. It was a miracle he hadn’t passed out yet. Jay didn’t even pay him a glance. Half his whole face was swollen purple where Hunter punched him. It throbbed like a sore tooth and with all their meds gone (the paracetamol worst of all) he had to sit and suffer with it. The bumpy ride didn’t help matters either. And it got worse when Parker pulled a hard right and took the pick-up off road. With the earth beneath the wheels so dry and parched, it was like riding over a pebble beach. The truck rocked to-and-fro until on unsettled ground until they were about a quarter mile out from Route 85. Parker shut off the engine.

 

Jay felt numb. “What are we doing out here?”

 

“He’s Wuhrer’s son. We can’t let him live and we can’t let his pops find the corpse,” said Parker. “Plus, he needs to pay for what he’s done – and for what he tried to do. Come on.”

 

Parker climbed out of the pick up and landed rocky soil. Jay paused, took a deep breath, then followed the older boy out. They walked around and opened the rear wagon for their prisoner. Hunter shivered in his own blood smears, dripping with sweat from brow to chest. His eyelids lulled heavy over glassy eyes and his shoulder wound was starting to stink. If they abandoned him he wouldn’t survive the night. 

 

“Help me move him,” said Parker.

 

Together, they hauled his ass out and dragged him further into the darkness. Without torches it was difficult to see where they were going but they weren’t too far from the pickup truck when they found a ditch big enough to throw him in, which they did. Hunter tumbled into the dirt. He landed face down but didn’t get up, his wound was too severe. He groaned and mumbled and muttered nonsense to himself as ropes of thick black blood dripped from his mangled shoulder.

 

Parker wore one of the shearling jackets Hunter left behind in his truck. In the pocket was a glass Coca Cola bottle filled with a thick, transparent liquid. Jay didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t water. He watched silently as Parker tipped it over the delirious Hunter’s head, jacket and trousers. Then he tossed the empty bottle into the ditch with him.

 

Then Parker lit a match.

 

And then Jay knew what that stuff was.

 

It was gas, siphoned out of the pickup truck’s tank, probably when he’d asked Parker to pull the truck over to pee earlier. The burning match lit up a fiendish grin in the darkness. There would be no hymns for Hunter Wuhrer. Jay paused a moment, wondering if this was the right thing, and then the memory of what that bastard tried to do to him flashed through his mind, how he screamed and begged for Hunter to stop and how he wouldn’t; how Hunter punched him, name-called him (“whore”, “sodomite”, “faggot”), threatened him, humiliated him and made him strip. 

 

 **He tried to rape me** , thought Jay. **He nearly sold me into slavery…**

 

Parker threw the match at Hunter’s body.

 

The scream that ensued was less a scream than an agonized, frantic shriek that rung out across the beaten prairie land. His whole body went up in flames. It became a thrashing black silhouette in a curtain of raging red flames that sundered his flesh and sinew. He howled and clawed at phantom shapes as if that could save him, but nothing could. Jay and Parker watched as the immolated Hunter screamed himself hoarse until he dropped to his knees as his body finally gave in and succumbed to the fire. His limp head slumped into a collapsing thorax as the savage heat peeled the lips from his skull and a bitter black smoke borne of charred flesh and cloth drifted up into a starry sky. They watched him burn until he burned black. His crisped right arm snapped loose from the blackened husk of his wounded shoulder and landed next to his carbonizing leg bones.

 

Jay threw up over his shoes.

 

**********

 

We left his remains out there to roast.

 

We went back to the pickup truck and drove back onto Route 85 southbound, following the highway in search of a safe place to see out the night. When we couldn’t find one we decided to park next to a train of abandoned cars and trucks and sleep in our seats. I didn’t sleep much that night. Every time I closed my eyes I either saw Hunter stroking himself off or burning to a crisp. My head ached. I spent more time keeping a look out. Nobody passed us by that night. No one caught up to us.

 

It was then, as I sat there watching the stars above me, that I realized that Parker was right to burn that asshole’s body. The minute Wuhrer found out we’d wounded his son, it would stop being a hunt for lost merchandise and start being a hunt for vengeance. That was a war we couldn’t win, even if we wanted to fight it. Worst still our supplies were all gone. The food, spare clothes, rope, tools, hunting rifles, all of it. When Parker and I first took off from the ruins of Polk and set out on Interstate 25, we were on a road trip to Mexico. And he’d prepped us well. The second we ran out of gas our road trip became a desperate struggle for survival.

 

When we woke up the following morning we pressed on, not realizing how deadly efficient Wuhrer’s militia was. They were cunning enough to fuel their rides with _just_ enough gas to complete whatever mission they had and return to their camp for re-fuel. It was smart. It meant that if an enemy ever commandeered one of their vehicles they wouldn’t get very far. We realized that tactic ourselves when less than an hour later Hunter’s ran low on fuel.

 

 _“We gotta kill the trail,”_ Parker said. He drove it off road again, this time eastward, and going about 400 yards clear of Route 85 before the fuel tank ran dry. It didn’t have many supplies, no food, no water, no spare clothes; but what it did have was ammo. We filled two mouldy old backpacks that we took from an open locker in that high school and filled them with banana clips, 9mm cartridges and rope. A quick search through the glove compartment found us a spare torch, five packs of American Spirits and a combat knife. We took everything we could from the pickup before Parker torched it. We kept on after that, another smoke cloud behind our backs.

 

It would be a long walk to Denver.

 

**********

 

Jay and Parker followed Route 85 southbound on foot. They walked until their feet were tired, stopped for a half-hour’s rest, then kept on going. Driving was quiet and boring. Walking was both – but also _hard_. The heat made it worse. For May, it was unusually warm. Looking up ahead Jay saw the chokingly hot air ripple in waves and all the rusty water towers and severed telephone poles looked like reflections of themselves in pools of water distorted by a thrown pebble. His throat was dry and there was nothing to drink. Hunter’s crew didn’t have any water on them. The wind was dead.    

 

 _TAKE THOSE CLOTHES OFF_. As they walked the road Parker checked each abandoned car they found for supplies. _SLOWLY… SLOWLY_. Most had nothing in them, but one or two still had something useful stashed away. _KNEEL_. Over the course of that afternoon they smashed a few windows and found a pocket knife, _SUCK IT_ , a pack of needles and thread, a useable thermos (full of a rancid old kelp smoothie long since hardened into crust, which they tipped out), a hammer, an X-Men comic book (for Parker), and a tin of corn. _SHUT THE FUCK UP_!

 

Jay grabbed his skull. What used to be a headache was now a full-blown migraine. Parker said something to him, but he couldn’t make it out, it was all just white noise. Between the throbbing purple bruise swallowing up half his face and the pounding at his temple, pounding like gunshots and drumbeats and explosions and fuzzy lights flashing through his eyes, he felt faint. He stopped where he was. He couldn’t walk another step. The world went white, and then black.

 

When Jay next opened his eyes, some six hours later, it was dark again. He looked up for a moment at a starry sky and its full moon, until a bug tried to crawl into his ear. Jay slapped it away and leaned upright from the tall grass. He found Parker there, just a yard away, with ten scraps of white meat skewered on whittled twigs cooking over an open fire. He’d skinned a hare with the pocket knife. Its bony carcass and skinned fur laid next to his feet. And the meat was ready. Parker pulled one of his twig skewers off the ground and nibbled at the hot white flesh. His eyes never strayed too far from the fire, until Jay woke up.

 

“Hey,” he said. “You okay, Pee Wee?”

 

Jay nodded “yes” and looked around. Parker had camped out on a grassy knoll overlooking a dirty brown river. Just ahead of them by about half a hundred yards was a tall stone overpass traversing it from bank to bank. Before he passed out they were half a mile shy of Fort Lupton, so if Jay remembered right then he was looking at the Platte River.

 

“You spooked me the fuck out,” Parker handed Jay one of skewers. Although more thirsty than hungry, he didn’t turn it down. “Had to carry you across a field on my fucking shoulders.”

 

Jay gobbled the white hare meat. It was unseasoned and chewy, but it was food. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker pulled his shirt off. His bruises were gone. There was a bucket near the fire full of river water and he rinsed himself off with it, scrubbing the dirt and hare’s blood from his hands and nails. “We’re not too far from Fort Lupton. I thought we could look for supplies there but I scoped it out when you were sleeping. It’s a 55er town. We gotta keep moving.”

 

“Okay,” said Jay. He ate another white hare skewer.

 

Parker looked at him, blankly. “…What’s the matter with you?”

 

He wasn’t going to answer. Jay was Jay because he always thought better of speaking his mind. When all was in his soul to scream, he was silent. And so, he stayed quiet for a while and hoped that Parker would get bored and do something else – read his comic or clean his gun or something. But the older boy wouldn’t let it go. He grinned fiendishly and crawled towards Jay by his haunches like a tribesman stalking game through the woods -- then suddenly grabbed the younger boy’s wrists and wrestled him into the grass.

 

“What are you doing?!” yelled Jay, his head still woozy from the migraine attack earlier. Parker either didn’t realize or didn’t care because he climbed on top of Jay’s legs to pin him down. “Parker, stop!”

 

The older boy frowned.  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

Jay looked up into his coal-hot eyes. He really didn’t get it. “I’m not in the mood.”

 

Scowling, Parker let him go. He went back to the fire and ate another of his skewers. Jay watched him sulk. He looked like a caveman crouching over the fire, shirtless and ignorant. He gnawed at the hare meat with sallow teeth. Jay pulled himself out of the grass again.

 

“Why did you tell him to shoot me?” Asked Jay.

 

Parker blinked. “What?”

 

“Back at the high school,” he explained, “when Hunter had the drop on us. He said he was gonna shoot me in the knee and you told him to do it. Why did you tell him that?”

 

“Jesus Christ, Jay, is that what you’re mad about? It was a bluff, I knew he wasn’t gonna shoot you and he knew it too – how much can you get in trade off a handicapped slave? I called his bluff and it worked.”

 

Jay looked away. “Okay.”

 

“Don’t do that,” he spat. “Don’t act like a fucking girl about it. I’m trying to keep us alive out here. I said I wasn’t gonna let anyone hurt you and I meant it.”

 

There was nothing Jay felt like saying. He didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. A breeze chilled his skin as he resolved not to bring it up anymore. It was cold out, so Jay brought himself closer to the fire and huddled down. As hot at the days were the nights were always colder. He and Parker ate the last of the white hare meat. Jay cleaned himself up with the water bucket. Parker stared at the flames. Silence.

 

“I killed my Dad,” said Parker.

 

Jay paused. “…What?”

 

“It was when the 55ers were shooting up the town hall. I spent days stealing the shit we needed to drive to Mexico and by then the Escort was all set, I just needed more meds. I don’t know why I left my Dad’s stash to the last minute, but I knew I needed it. So, when the 55ers attacked us, I left the watch duty and I ran home, figuring that Dad was out there with the Black Bandanas trying to save what he could. But no. He was getting ready to run too. He and my step-mom were loading a van with everything he could find; food, water, clothes, ammo _and_ meds. I remember her saying, _“What about Parker?”_ and you know what he told her? He said, _“We have to go.”_ That’s all. _“We have to go”_ …my Dad’s whore cared more about me than he did. Can you believe that? And there was me hiding in the bushes like a little kid. I watched them jump in the van… and rev up the engine… and get ready to leave me behind, so I snuck back into the house. I thought _fuck him, fuck him, fuck him – just get the meds_. The Escort was ready, I just needed more meds. I didn’t realize his van wouldn’t start, I didn’t even hear him come back into the house. He used to hide his med stash beneath some floorboards in our basement but of course he’d cleaned it all out. That was when found me. _“It was you!”_ he said. _“You’re the one who stole the tithe!”_ It wasn’t me, but… do you think he would’ve cared if I’d told him elsewise? Nah. He wasn’t gonna listen. I said something to him, I don’t remember what, and then the next thing I knew he had his hands around my neck. He blamed me for everything. For the town, for the fires, for my mom. Everything. And I couldn’t breathe,” said Parker. “So, I shot him.”

 

Jay kept silent.

 

“I wanted to burn him,” said Parker. “I wanted to watch the skin peel off his bones. I hated him so fucking much, Jay. But I just left him there. And then I went to get you.”

 

“…I had no idea,” said Jay. “I-I-I don’t know what to say…”

 

Parker focused on the flames. “Don’t say anything. Lets just sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to AmosLee1023 and The_Man_Called_Madara for your comments, really appreciate the feedback! :)


	5. The Republic of Denver, Part 1

 

I used to read a lot of books back in Polk. Novels, mainly. There was precious little left that Pastor Evans didn’t burn but I made do. _The Shadow over Innsmouth_ was a favourite of mine (hopefully for the right reasons) but _Blood Meridian_ was better. I read and re-read my dad’s copy of _The Earthsea Trilogy_ until it was dog-eared. _‘A good book is like a doorway into another world’_ , my dad used to say, _‘and the best ones always make you want to stay’_. He was right. I remember one hot summer’s day he sat me down and taught me about structure and pace, setting, characterization, theme, motifs, suspension of disbelief – and all the conventions I ought to know to make an accurate assessment about how good a tale really was. I suppose biographies fulfil a similar purpose, if not structure – to draw you in, to share a life, to tempt you to stay. So, ask yourself, whoever you are… are you tempted to stay in my world? I hope the answer is no. If not, then you haven’t really been listening, my friend.

 

So why am I doing this?

 

Everything that happened to me and Parker, why am I sharing it with you? What purpose does this little ‘autobiography’ serve? I don’t even think I know. I don’t know what I know anymore. What I think becomes a blur the longer I think it. Every day becomes the next and on and on I go, but nothing gets better. How did I get here? When did it all turn? Was it when Parker first fed me his cock and made me obsessed with him? Was it when my Dad died? Or was it when Polk burned to the ground? Over these last few weeks I’ve come to believe that the turning point of my grand drama, the very climax of it, was that rotten fucking city.

 

Denver.

 

There, my devoted listener, is where it all changed.

 

**********

 

It was a _long_ walk from Fort Lupton to Denver. Jay and Parker walked for hours as they followed the US 85 south beneath a baking hot sun. It was so hot the tarmac beneath their sneakers started to soften. Jay mopped up his brow with his bare wrist. His throat was so parched he would’ve sold his kidneys for a glass of water, but he kept moving, knowing that Parker would scold him if he started lagging. The sun was at its highest and brightest when they passed by a small town called Brighton – though all they saw of it were the upper walls of its many three-storey apartment buildings, their beige-tile roofing either collapsing inward or growing green with moss, and that was _all_ they would see. Jay had suggested searching Brighton for supplies rather than Denver, but Parker scoffed at the idea – _‘It’s too close to Fort Lupton,’_ he’d said, _‘I’m not taking any chances’._

 

**He said ‘I’m’** , noted Jay, **not ‘we’re’**.

 

Parker was a few paces ahead of Jay. His knapsack rocked from side to side upon his back with the AK-47 slung from his shoulder by its strap, and Hunter’s .357 Smith and Wesson tucked into his belt. He was tired too, Jay could tell, his kinky black hair practically sparkled in the sunlight from all that sweat, but he didn’t slow down or look back.

 

He and Jay hadn’t spoken much since breaking camp at the Platte. They bundled what little things they had left into their pilfered knapsacks, filled their flask with boiled water, kicked dirt over their cookfire to hide the ash and hare bones, then hiked their way back to Route 85 and made their way south. The silence was deafening. No dirty jokes, no banter, no talk at all. Jay spent a lot of that morning working up the nerve to ask Parker why he hadn’t mentioned shooting Pastor Evans sooner, but backed out every time he got close.

**Is he ashamed?** Jay wondered. **No, not him. And certainly not for that. So then why…?**

 

Parker stopped walking.

 

“What’s wrong?” Asked Jay. “Why’d you stop?”

 

Instead of saying it he pointed a sweaty finger ahead of them. Jay looked on. No fewer than a hundred yards up was a cluster of concrete road blocks – dozens of them – blocking all three lanes of the highway. Their placement was slipshod, and many had cracked through (whether by erosion or force) but there was enough still standing to block anything wider than a motorbike from approaching the city. Parker growled beneath his breath. His plan was to sneak into the city, grab some fuel and supplies then steal a functional car and loop back onto the E-470 and follow it around the city until it re-joined the I-25 on the southern side. If all the other highways into Denver were blockaded (and there was no reason they wouldn’t be) then his plan was fucked. That reality became clearer as they pressed on. They squeezed through the roadblocks and followed the 85 southbound past Elmwood Cemetery, its emerald fields long overtaken by weeds and thistle and shrubbery; and soon found that for every 200 yards they walked they found another cluster of roadblocks along the way. Many were strewn with bullet holes or broken in half by explosives, but most still stood and at once Jay saw the problem this posed. Even if they found a vehicle, getting it out of Denver meant driving on and off-road to dodge the checkpoints, risking their tyres and wasting time. But they were desperately low on food, fuel and meds and if they didn’t re-supply soon, they wouldn’t survive long enough to make it to Mexico.

 

The last major checkpoint was beneath the bridge of the E-470 as it crossed over Route 85. Within its shadow rested yard-high concrete blocks bulwarked at the gaps by barbed wire. Atop the bridge were two hexagonal pillboxes and aligned to both sides of the 85 were long rows of dragon’s teeth stretching out as far northwest and southeast as Jay could see. They were half hidden in the high weeds of the surrounding fields, along with the marbled bodies of dozens of US Army soldiers; their helmets and weapons and fatigues still equipped to their bones.

 

“They must’ve fought a pretty bad battle here,” said Jay, as he and Parker climbed over the roadblocks. “During the Occupation I mean.”

 

Parker said nothing.

 

On the other side of the blockade was a huge column of abandoned vehicles. The entire highway was logjammed from edge to edge by thousands of empty cars, RVs and pick-up trucks, long since abandoned by their owners. Now Jay understood the purpose of the dragon’s teeth hidden in the grass. It wasn’t just there to keep 55ers _out_ , but to keep the citizens _in_. If the rest of the city exits were fortified this way, there was no way in hell they were _driving_ out of Denver.

 

Since the cars were all so closely huddled along the highway it was impossible to walk it, so Jay and Parker followed the 85 the rest of the way off-road. They passed through Henderson and a derelict auto unload facility until the route joined with the I-76. By the time they reached the beached trucks, pit stops and trailers of Adams City, the sun was setting. It would be dark before they reached downtown.

 

“We should rest up for a few hours,” Parker said. They were his first words since they left the river. “We’ll get the supplies when it’s dark.”

 

**Finally…** Jay bit his lip – and swallowed that part of himself that felt relieved. Instead he checked around for a spot to rest at. This deep into Adams City there was nothing but old factories and empty lots about, tin-roofed shacks and woodsheds and the like, but further along the street there was an old trailer park hemmed in by wire fencing. Jay drew his 9mm and led the way to the first one that looked reasonably habitable, kicked open its rusty door (plastered over with faded _Buchanan ’96_ stickers) and led the way inside.

 

**********

 

Understand that Parker and I weren’t ignorant of the danger.

 

For years rumours about Denver had bounced around Polk’s walls. Dodge warned us away from the city. We weren’t stupid. We never would’ve entered if Hunter Wuhrer’s goons hadn’t stolen all our gear. But he did, that _bastard_ , and he changed everything; he altered the course of our fucking destinies.

 

The plan was simple.

 

Go into the city, scavenge for some food and supplies and fuel, hijack a running car and drive it out of town. If there were any more road blocks like those at the Route 85 intersection, we’d siphon the gas into cannisters and double back to a used car lot outside the city. It was nothing we hadn’t done before, right? Just like the supply runs the Black Bandanas used to make on Fort Collins… right?

 

Dear listener, do you understand what monstrosity of thought is? It’s the realization that if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t have gone back to warn the Polk about the 55ers or save my father or stop Parker from going beyond the wall and kicking off this whole fucking mess. No, no. I wouldn’t have done any of that. If I could turn back the clock, I would’ve done one thing and one thing only – I would’ve whispered in my own ear…

 

**********

 

**‘STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM DENVER’**

 

That’s what someone scrawled into the lacquered oak countertop that Jay now sat upon. He slowly traced his fingertips over its knife-carved indentations, mainly to distract himself from the laminated lunch menu next to his denimed thigh. Just looking at it made his stomach grumble – _Grilled Bacon Chicken Cheese Deluxe_ , _Texas Bacon Cheesesteak Melt_ , _Bacon Angus Cheeseburger Deluxe_ , _Texas Bacon Patty Melt_ , _T-Bone Steak Dinner_ … each one sided with hash browns and a choice of iced tea or coke and each picture looked torturously juicer than the last. There were still a few abandoned plates left on the window-side tables, but nothing was left of them except long encrusted sauce smears and dust. The Waffle House was long since abandoned but judging by the thousands of rat shit kernels littering the tiled floor, there had to be a source of food somewhere nearby.

 

Jay willed himself not to think of food and called out to Parker. “Find anything yet?”

 

He yelled back “Not yet!” as he rifled through the cupboards in the back. He wasn’t taking his time in there, but he was careful not to make much noise. A few minutes later he came back out with nothing to show for his trouble except an old butcher knife and a surprisingly clean towel. He wrapped the former in the latter and swapped it for the AK-47 he’d given Jay to hold as he stood look out. Now they had two knives apiece.

 

“There’s fuck all in this shit town,” said Parker. He shoved open the glass doors and stepped out into the parking lot where an early morning chill bit down upon them. Walking southwest from Adams City, they’d passed by nothing but empty townhouses and derelict grocery stores. Parker and Jay had searched a few of them but each one was methodically picked clean. All the kitchens were turned out with no canned food to speak of. Every medicine or gun cabinet the found were equally empty, nor were there any valuables left worth trading for. It was like that all the way to Elyria Swansea. But as they passed beneath the I-70 overpass into the heart of the city, the city quickly transformed into fractions of itself that could only be described as villages.

 

They came by the first one in Cole. It ran for about two blocks in either direction, four blocks in total, the area hemmed in by a three-yard high fence of razor wire, old lumber, broken furniture and cracked slabs of asphalt. Outside its walls the townhouses were as dilapidated as anything else they’d seen in their journey, but within them the homesteads were well tended. Sheets of tin-mental patched up cracks in the tiles roofs and whole gardens had been dug up into tiny farms of apple trees, potato patches and makeshift glass greenhouses filled with picked tomato vines and potted herbs. Newly whittled picket fences arrayed around both lawns and yards like paddocks and in them Jay and Parker spotted troughs full of pig slop as well as stacks of wire frame chicken coups and woodwork rabbit hutches. The villagers had spread out sheets of tarp from the rooftops to the telephone poles by the sidewalk, probably to shield their livestock from harder weather. 

 

**People have been living here** , thought Jay. He would have said it out loud if he thought Parker would say something back. **And recently too**. And yet like the rest of the city they’d seen so far; Cole Village was abandoned. What was unusual about this place was that the abandonment looked recent. The street that Jay and Parker walked down was overflowing with junk – the kind of junk you dropped as you fled for your life from something – liquor bottles, blankets, spindles, tobacco pipes, jewellery, rope, pitchforks. And all the livestock was gone. Nothing was left of them save some old feathers and dung mounds.

 

“Whoever was living here cleared out in a hurry,” said Parker.

 

**But there’s no signs of a fight** , thought Jay. There were no corpses or bullet holes or bloodstains nearby. Whatever cause them to flee wasn’t violent – but no doubt carried with it the _threat_ of violence. “55ers, you think?”

 

As he wondered about that Parker spooled up one of the ropes and folded it into his backpack. Maybe it would come in handy later. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we-”

 

He stopped talking the second he heard wheels and rumbling engines rear towards the village from the north. Jay and Parker quickly ran off the road, up the sidewalk and behind an outhouse nestled against the closest townhouse and watched as three pick-up trucks; 2 F-150s and a black-painted Dodge Ram, wheeled to a stop mid-way through the street. Each one flew the 55er flag from their roofs and carried four-strong squads of men in each rear wagon, all of them tooled up to their eyeballs with 12-gauge pump actions and fully jacketed M16s. Only one of them was (visibly) unarmed; a tall, nut-eyed man climbing out of the driver’s side of the Dodge Ram, the gravel track crunching beneath his boots. Jay and Parker watched him closely. Going by his pale grey hair and unshaved beard he was in his mid-to-late fifties, maybe older, but oddly muscular beneath his khaki jacket. A fleshy scar ran down his face from the top of his widow’s peak, along his forehead, over his left eye, down his cheek and ending at his jaw. There was a look in his eye as he surveyed the empty village around him – a kind of focused, over-alert stare that went from one house to the next scoping out vantage points or defensive formations and traps. He was ex-military for sure.

 

“Boys!” He yelled out to his men, “Search the area, they can’t have gotten far!”

 

**They’re looking for someone** , thought Jay. He crouched behind Parker, who quietly slung the AK-47 back over his shoulder as the 55ers climbed out of the rear cabins and spread out across the street. Some patrolled the streets whilst others kicked open the townhouse doors and searched them through as the silver-haired man walked up to the first F-150 XL and exchanged words with the driver -- which left the Dodge Ram at the back of the formation empty. Parker grinned.

 

“That’s our ride,” he said.

 

**What the fuck’s he thinking?** The closest 55er was a skinny mope in cargo pants balancing his 12-guage off his shoulder. He was two doors down from them. In a couple minutes he’d pass by their alleyway and spot them. “We can’t take their pickup!”

 

“Where else in this piece of shit city will we find a running car with a healthy tank of gas without taking it from someone? Look how far they’ve spread out, all we need to do is double around and grab that Ram,” then he pointed towards the back of the house. “Hang back behind that wall and get your knife ready.”

 

There was no point in arguing with him now. Jay sighed, then crept back slowly around the cracked rear wall of the house they were tucked up against. He shrugged off his backpack and unwrapped the Waffle House knife – seven sharp inches of stainless steel. Jay held his position at the corner as Parker grabbed a pebble from the ground and pressed up closer to the outhouse wall. When that skinny 55er passed by the alleyway to move to the next house, the Evans boy threw it at the opposing wall and the scuffed sound drew his attention.

 

“Someone there?” He said.

 

No reply.

 

Snarling, the 55er pumped the 12-guage. If he was smarter (or at least better trained) he would’ve yelled for someone to come and cover his back. Instead he moved in – just like Parker wanted him to. The skinny, string-haired militiaman stepped forward cautiously, one slow boot after the other, until he inched past the outhouse – and Parker leapt out from behind it. One of his arms snatched around his neck. The other clamped down around his mouth – too late for him to call for his friends. He was a scrawny fuck and Parker had nearly half-a-buck over him in weight, so when he struggled to buck free Parker span their bodies sideways and cracked his nose against the wall. The pulpy, crunchy sound made Jay’s stomach curdle. The 55er screamed into Parker’s hand (which was now soaked in the guy’s blood), but it was nothing but muffled noise. His hands went limp and the 12-guage dropped to the grass. 

 

“Jay!” Whispered Parker. “Jay, come out here!”

 

He emerged from the corner with the knife in his hands and saw the 55er wrestle weakly in the chokehold, blood streaming from his nose down Parker’s hand and shoulder. “Gut him!” Said Parker. “Quick, before any of his buddies come!”

 

Jay froze.

 

For a moment, it was like someone asking him to throw himself off a cliff. He had the knife in his hand. He had the training. He knew to aim for aim for the chest or the throat for a clean kill. He didn’t need a run up and there was no risk he might scream or alert his friends. The target was scum – rapist, murderer, slaver. There was no judgement from above nor any law in place to punish him for it. Stabbing that 55er should have been as simple as gutting a deer or butchering a pig – something he’d done a dozen times back in Polk.

 

And yet he froze.

 

“Jesus Christ, what are you waiting for?” Seethed Parker. “Do it!”

 

One upon a dream Jay had pictured himself stabbing Billy Locke to death. He recalled the frantic, savage look in his own eye as he repeatedly jutted cold steel into his gut and soaked his own bedroom carpet in the bastard’s blood. It seemed so easy in his mind. And now? In the real world? The blade wobbled. Jay looked down and saw his knife hand trembling like a leaf. He clutched his wrist, but the shakes wouldn’t stop. **What’s wrong with me?** He thought. **Why am I…?**

 

Parker growled, annoyed, and threw the 55er down and pulled out the combat knife they took from Hunter Wuhrer’s pickup truck three nights ago. Before he yelled for his pals the boy shoved his mouth into the soil, tucked the blade against his throat and sliced it open. Parker held him down like a hog, his wound glutting, until a few second later the man went limp.

 

“What the FUCK is wrong with you?” Barked Parker. “You wanna die out here? Jesus! Grab his fucking legs, help me get him into the outhouse!”

 

Jay was scared to even touch him now – but was scared _worse_ of Parker being mad at him again. The boy shook off his shakes and followed suit as Parker grabbed the dead militiaman by his shoulders. Together, they bundled him into the outhouse and secured the door with a lost rake. The others wouldn’t find him for now but the second their captain called for a pull out they’d realize they were missing a man. Keeping that in mind, Jay followed closely behind Parker as led him around the back of the houses. They slipped from shadow to shadow all the way to the end of the village until they were far enough away to cross the street and not be spotted. They dove into the shadows of _those_ houses and followed the rear alleyway all the way back to the house closest to the three pickup trucks. The patrol had thinned a bit by then as the 55ers turned the townhouses upside down searching for supplies. Only two of them were on the streets -- their captain (still gabbing with the front-most driver) and the second driver who stood guard by a growing stockpile of food, clothes and tools at the foot of the sidewalk, about four doors down from the outhouse where his dead comrade was stashed.

 

Parker took the lead, inching down the cobblestone driveway towards the Dodge Ram. Once in its shadow, he ducked low and (with a still angry look on his face) waved for Jay to follow him. Nervous, Jay looked around. None of the other 55ers were in ear or eyeshot. The Mixon boy followed Parker’s footsteps until he was safely tucked up beside him again.

 

“Get into the truck,” said Parker. He swapped knives with Jay, combat for kitchen, and drew out his Luger with his free hand. “As soon as you hear a shot, start the engine alright? Don’t _fuck up_ this time.”

 

Jay frowned. He wanted to defend himself by saying something clever (like Parker always did) but nothing came to mind. Instead of arguing he just nodded (reminding himself of a scolded kid) and carefully opened the car door to climb inside. The Dodge Ram was hot and musty with the stench of BO, but Jay kept his head no higher than the dashboard – which was just about high enough to watch Parker sneak over to the middle pickup ahead of the Ram and sink his knife into both of its rear tyres. The hiss of released air was too faint to overhear. Parker then snuck forward, low against the shadows, and then quickly punctured the rear and front tyres of the frontmost pickup – and that they _did_ hear. Jay spotted the captain (who now realized that something was wrong) pull a Glock 19 from a holster beneath his jacket, but he ducked for cover when a gunshot ripped through the passenger side window and splattered the right side of driver’s skull against the half-rolled window.

 

**Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!** Jay clambered up onto the driver’s seat and turned the keys in the ignition. As soon as the engine thrummed to life more gunshots peppered off in the distance. One crashed through the front window of the second pick up as Parker ducked behind it for cover and the captain, gun outstretched, yelled for his men to out of the townhouses. It gave Parker just enough time to run low from the F-150 XL and climb into the Dodge and as soon as he did Jay put his foot on the gas and peeled away in reverse. The second driver by the stockpile advanced past the captain and pumped his 12-gauge but he missed his shot by a yard and blew a hole through an abandoned mailbox. By the time he loaded another round and the 55ers came running out of the houses to see what the fuck was going on, Jay reversed the Ram into driveway, drove right, and peeled out of the village gates in the opposite direction.

 

**********

 

Hindsight is 20/20, as they say.

 

Should we have stolen a vehicle from the 55ers? Probably not. But what would’ve changed? Precious little to none, I’d bet. Maybe we would’ve passed her by, that fucking bitch, or maybe we’d have just stumbled on until the 55ers caught and killed us. Who the fuck knows? All I know now is that any hope we had of throwing _him_ off the trail was gone the minute we stole one of his rides and incapacitated the other two. Whose ‘him’, you ask? The ‘him’ I’m speaking of was the captain of that road crew, a man I was soon to learn was one of the most powerful captains in the whole of the Fifty-Five Thousand Army, the man who ordered the attack on Polk after it defaulted on its tithes, the one whose son tried to rape me and sell me into slavery.

 

Wuhrer.

 

But more on him later.

 

Once we drove out of Cole Village the going was a hell of a lot less slow. The truth was that the Dodge Ram was (at the time) well worth stealing. The tank was three quarters full, the black finish made it easy to hide at night, and as we were soon to learn, the rear cab was packed with dozens of M16 rifles and three whole crates filled with hundreds upon hundreds of 20-round magazines. When Parker reasoned that it looked more like a shipment than a hoard, I wondered (out loud) if that meant they might come after us. He frowned at me for saying it but didn’t argue with the logic.

 

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” I remember him saying, “I took out the tyres on their other pickups, they’ll have to walk back to the nearest 55er town to get another ride and by then we’ll be gone.”

 

His plan was to find as much food, meds and clothes as possible, load up the Ram, then find the fastest way out of town. If the rest of the city exits were blockaded (like it was back on Route 85) they’d siphon some gas, walk until we found a working car, then drive it back and collect the supplies. It was just a matter of finding what we needed.

 

That afternoon we only stopped to swapped seats. Parker took the wheel (I didn’t mind since I hadn’t driven in a while and I was nervous about beaching or damaging it by mistake) and made sure not to stop until we got enough distance from Cole. We drove south past Martin Luther King Boulevard into Whitter, then turned right on 26th Avenue towards Five Points and from there we turned left onto Welton Street. From there you started to see the towers and skyscrapers downtown. That’s where (and when) Denver started looking like the cities that I used to see in my father’s old picture books – or at least their broken reflection.

 

Abandoned cars rusted away beneath the sun everywhere we looked. Broken telephone poles rested peacefully in their old crash points on the roofs of the local three-storey apartments. Moss and liana grew from the cracks in the clay-coloured bricks. The streets were just as broken. Not just potholes or cracks but whole craters blown into the gravel by god knows what… RPGs, IEDs perhaps? And sweet Jesus, the bodies. I’d never seen so many dead bodies in one place before. They were _everywhere_. Fucking everywhere. Old skeletons wrapped in withered clothes and strewn out over stoops, sidewalks, dumpsters, windows, ledges, deck chairs, doorways, park benches. Some of them still sat in their cars with their worn finger bones still locked to the wheel. I saw half-finished civic buildings rotting away in their old construction sites – metal girders and pipes poked out of the cement like rib bones. One of the cranes had somehow fallen into the ring fence of an empty ballpark. It was so desolate. I remember wondering to myself what that city must have looked like before everything went to shit, how busy it must have been, how loud and overpowering. But now? Now it was just a graveyard. Nothing living walked those streets anymore. That’s what I thought at the beginning, anyway.

 

We weren’t too far out from the central business district when we started seeing trails of thick black smoke rising into the sky. We got a little closer and then we started hearing rifle fire rattling off at unseen targets at an unknown distance – sustained bursts every few seconds. It got quiet for a few minutes then started up again, regular as clockwork.

 

There was a crater in the road up ahead. Parker turned right onto Park Avenue West and drove through an empty car park to re-join Welton Street, but we didn’t reach another ten yards ahead before we found the first blockade.

 

“Oh shit.” Parker hit the brake, shut off the engine, then opened the door and climbed out of the Ram. I did the same.

 

It wasn’t military. The ‘blockade’ was just a bunch of cars shoved into a single line across the street. What I didn’t know at the time was that the people who did it (people we were soon to meet) had done that to every single westward road on North Broadway; from Brighton Boulevard off the I-70 all the way south to the Valley Highway over South Broadway and West Kentucky Avenue. We weren’t going any further even if we wanted to… at least not by car.

 

“So, what the fuck do we do now?” I asked. It was cloudy that day, but I still remember shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand as I watched the smoke columns drift between the skyscrapers downtown. 

 

“Lookit, the hard part’s done, we’ve got us a ride, don’t we?” Parker stuck his thumb at an indoor car park behind us. “Let’s stash the pickup inside then search for supplies, boots first.”

 

I wish we’d turned back and tried find another way around.

 

Better yet, I wish we never went into that fucking city at all.

 

Maybe then we never would’ve met… _her_.

 

**********

 

Jay couldn’t say he knew much about the concept of a mall. He’d heard about them, of course (mostly from books) and as a kid his dad used to tell him stories about how he and Grandma Mixon used to go for shopping trips in Denver (when _he_ was a kid) but ultimately he was what the old world would’ve called a small town boy and he couldn’t really ‘see’ the kind of place their stories were talking about – food courts and arcades and Chuck E. Cheese and what not. And then boom… there he was walking in one.

 

They found it not too far from where they left their pickup, just a few blocks away really. The whole mall front was reinforced glass backed by metal latticework. Jay imagined it looking amazing back in the day. Today? Today it was covered in moss and bird shit – but it wasn’t cracked at all. He and Parker shoved open the revolving door into a huge semi-circular building, at least three floors high. They were surrounded on all but one side with stores. Clothes stores, games stores, phone stores, grocery stores, shoes stores, music stores… the forecourt was empty though, save for two battered old ice cream and candy floss stands (both of which were overturned). The floor was filthy with rat shit… and bird shit and dog shit and human shit… and broken tiles, cracked bulbs and loose girders fallen from the ceiling, but you could walk around it.

 

“Strap up,” said Parker. He’d swapped the AK-47 for one of the M16s in the pickup and loaded a fresh mag as Jay fished out his 9mm. “We don’t know what’s waiting for us in the shade.”

 

**That’s what your father used to say** , thought Jay. He took out his torch then advanced into the darkness. He would’ve been scared to without Parker close by his side. They followed the light cone across the dirty forecourt toward a set of metal steps.

 

“What the fuck kind of stairs is that?” Said Parker.

 

“It’s called an escalator,” Jay shined a light over it. “It used to move. My dad said all you needed to do was stand on one of the steps and it’d carry you up to the top.”

 

As Jay climbed its inert steps Parker fell in behind him. “Well that’s stupid.”

 

“Why’s it stupid?”

 

“What’s fucking _stupider_ than moving stairs?” he said. “No wonder the old world went to shit if the people were so goddamn lazy that they couldn’t walk up the fucking stairs on their own. Jesus.”

 

Most of the stores were at the top and Jay and Parker had no choice but to go through them all one by one. Normally they’d be more careful, go a little slower, but the gunfire in the distance made them both anxious (especially Jay). Whoever was still holed up in this city was fighting tooth and nail to keep it and neither of them wanted to be on the wrong side of that fight. So, they split up. Jay took the left, Parker took the right. And neither of them found much. Jay’s first store sold shoes (or used to) but most of the boxes were empty, snatched up by scavengers years ago… although he found a good pair of boots his size. He kicked off his beaten-up sneakers then fitted them on.

 

The next store over was a bakery. All its pretty glass cabinets were smashed up and what little food was left in them had rotted up into crusty balls of mould. The pantry was empty when he checked it and the next bunch of stores were the same – picked clean. Jay was another six stores down on his side when he heard Parker calling out to him;

 

“Jay!” He yelled. “Jay, get over here!”

 

He was in an old drug store at the time. Jay stuffed the only worthwhile things he found into his backpack (an expired bottle of aspirin and some surgical tape) and followed his voice across the way into an old video game store. It was probably the only store in the whole mall that hadn’t been ransacked. Its stock still sat on its dusty shelves (only slightly worse for wear) SNES cartridges, Sega Genesis cartridges, Sega Saturn CDs and PlayStation disks – and posters still clung to the walls;

 

**_Electronic Entertainment Expo ’97_ **

**_Atlanta, Georgia_ **

**(GET YOUR TICKETS NOW!)**

And…

**_The Battle Continues!_ **

**_Tekken 3 tm_ **

 

…and so on. His father used to say that video games were bad for children _(‘they just rot your brains’_ ) and judging by how little was actually taken from the store over the years, Jay believed it. He found Parker across the way in an old video game store where he sat hunkered over the corpse of a dead Dobermann. It was shot through the head.

 

“You found this?” Asked Jay.

 

Parker nodded. He checked the dog’s skull for an exit wound but didn’t find one. “It’s fresh… and it was killed at a distance. Someone must’ve dragged it here. C’mon. Keep that torch light up ahead of me.”

 

Jay flashed the torchlight ahead of his feet by a yard and followed him as he led the way behind the counter to a spare room in the back. He opened it just lightly enough not to make any noise as the light cone fell over what was inside – a ruffled sleeping bag, empty cams of spam, apple cores, spare pistol clips, a piss bucket, and some oil-soiled rags.

 

“Someone’s slept here?”

 

“No shit,” said Parker. “Whoever shot that dog probably-”

 

The 9mm went off. The shot ricocheted off the stone floor and cracked the wall, startling Parker. Jay hadn’t meant to fire it; his finger just slipped against the trigger the second that arm snatched tight around his throat and dragged him backwards into the video game store. Something cold and sharp jutted against his ribs but Jay was only faintly aware of it because he was struggling to breathe. And then a smooth voice whispered “drop your gun” into his ear. A girl’s voice. He dropped his weapon (and the torch). Parker charged out of the rear room in shooting posture, the M16’s stock set firmly against his shoulder, but he flinched when he spotted the knife up against Jay’s abdomen.

 

“Who are you guys?” She spat. “You with the Foragers?”

 

**Foragers?** Thought Jay. But the blade felt so prickly against his ribs he lost his focus and winced.

 

“Put the fucking knife down,” said Parker. “A blind man couldn’t miss at this range.”

 

The girl chuckled. “That’s an M16, 700 rounds per minute cyclical, 30 rounds per mag. Shoot me at this range and you take your boy with you. You should’ve come out with that little Nazi pop gun instead.”

 

The Luger rattled tauntingly in Parker’s belt as she said it. And she was right. There wasn’t a marksman alive or dead who could cut a clean shot of a target one-yard shy of their M16.

 

“Who are you?” He asked.

 

“ _I’m_ asking the questions here,” she said. “Drop your rifle and slide it over to me. _Slowly_.”

 

Parker’s shoulders shook with anger, but he complied, and slowly lowered the weapon to the ground. He reluctantly tapped the rifle over to her. He was frowning – but there was a glint in his eye that Jay only ever saw at one specific time… when Parker burned things.

 

When the M16 hit her boots, the girl released Jay’s throat just long enough to take it up, shove Jay over to Parker and lift the stock into her shoulder. This wasn’t like Silver holding up a Glock three times his body weight in LaSalle – she knew how to use that weapon. And for the first time Jay saw her with his own eyes.

 

She _was_ a girl, but you couldn’t tell beneath her scruffy lemon-coloured hoodie and baggy black khakis. She was caked in two days’ worth of blood, dirt and sweat from her dirty blonde hair down to her scuffed-up boots. A beaten backpack swung from her shoulders.

 

“You say you’re not with the Foragers then who _are_ you?” She asked. “Scavengers? Travellers? Runaway slaves?”

 

Jay caught his breath. He was bleeding from a slight cut where her knife had jabbed at him (but he didn’t realize it at the time). “We’re… travellers. Are you on the run for the 55ers too?”

 

Her eyes narrowed. She paused, calculating what she’d just heard, then calmly asked them if they were from ‘up north’. That’s when Parker told her about Polk and the 55ers.

 

“…Polk, huh? We had a couple of survivors pass through a couple days ago… they told us about what happened. I’m sorry.” And then her entire expression changed from mistrustfully to weary as she handed the M16 back to Parker, who looked genuinely confused by that (as did Jay). Inside that moment was an even smaller one where Jay honestly expected Parker to open fire on the girl, snatch the pack off her back, and keep moving; instead he did the exact opposite. 

 

He smiled at her (sceptically). “You sure you wanna give this back to me?”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” She said. “You’re not getting out of here alive without me, got it?” There was a hidden chest beneath the store counter. The girl thumbed some numbers into its lock and popped it open. It was full of meds – liquid paracetamol, diazepam, syringes, gauze, dressings, band aids, etc. She loaded all of it into her backpack. “Do you two have names?”

 

**What? Are we friends now?** Thought Jay. “Uh…”

 

“Parker,” he said. “This is Jay.”

 

“Well, _Parker and Jay_ ,” She zipped up her pack and hauled it back onto her shoulders. “I’m McCullough. You can call me that if you like. And I don’t know how you didn’t get the lay of the land rolling this deep into the Republic on your own but here’s the skinny – you’re in hostile territory now and if you wanna live long enough to walk back out, you better stay on my ass, you got it?”

 

**Republic?** Jay thought. **What does she mean ‘Republic’…?**

 

“What the hell’s going on around here?” Asked Parker.

 

McCullough pulled a M11 from her back pocket and racked the slide. “There’s no time. I shot one of their hunting dogs on the way in, they’ll circle back to the mall soon. Follow me.”

 

She then leapt over the counter and left the store. Parker moved to follow her.

 

“Wait,” said Jay. “We’re just gonna go with her?”

 

“There’s jack shit in here, Pee Wee. And didn’t you hear what she said? _‘We had a couple of survivors pass through here?’_ She’s got others with her, maybe those people from that village in Cole. We’ll take the supplies we need off them and after that, we’re done with this fucking place.”

 

Jay hated it when Parker was right (because he was always so damn smug about it) but he was right about that. Wherever McCullough and her people were holed up they were more likely to get food and fuel off them than they would trawling through that decrepit mall. Parker shouldered the M16 for his Luger and followed McCullough out of the store. Jay sighed, cocked his 9mm, and followed Parker.

 

The three of them crept out into the second floor and picked their way through the broken glass and tile fragments to another dead escalator down the hall. They followed it up to a smaller third floor and looped around its balcony to a side door marked STAFF ONLY. McCullough booted it open. The door swung into the wall and revealed a long flight of stairs that they quickly scaled, all the way up to the mall’s roof. The fresh air hit Jay like a rabbit punch (especially compared to the grimy stink of the mall) but it was soured with the scent of smoke. From there the black columns of ash were taller than ever and the rattle of gunfire ever more distinct. 

 

“Keep low,” said McCullough.

 

She crawled to the roof’s edge and carefully pointed Jay and Parker to a column of trucks arrayed along the pavement opposite the mall’s rear exit. Their engines were chugging, and their rear cabins were full to overflowing with fresh corpses, and they were guarded by a squad of twenty beefed out, yellow-toothed savages. Jay would’ve mistaken them for 55ers if not for their gear… military-grade. M16 rifles equipped with M203 grenade launchers, Mossberg 500 shotguns, M67 frag grenades and M84 stun grenades. They wore oddments of old US Army field equipment mixed in with their dirty t-shirts and slacks; a few in BDU fatigues and combat boots, others in flak jackets and combat helms, or even more in visors and desert camos. They weren’t ex-military, but they were packing like a rebel army.

 

“They the ‘Foragers’ you were talking about?” Whispered Parker.

 

McCullough nodded ‘yes’, but Jay was more concerned with that cargo of theirs. Every few minutes two men emerged from the side streets and abandoned buildings carrying a dead body in their hands. They walked up to the trucks, slung the corpse on top of its pile, then ran off to get more. “What are they doing with those bodies?”

 

McCullough frowned. “…Food.”

 

**********

 

She called them the Foragers.

 

They were (as I was soon to be told) an aggressive militia excommunicated from the Fifty-Five Thousand Army in 2010. They hit the road and went southwest into the Rockies where food was so scarce that survival meant capturing wanderers out of Larimer County. That’s where they developed a taste for human flesh. They kept the women as their slaves but the men (those who wouldn’t join up) were summarily executed and served up as hamburgers. But wanderers were so few that they would’ve eventually died up there, whether from disease or starvation. Yet they survived. How?

 

Sometime in the summer of 2012 their scouts discovered an abandoned US Army base hidden in the mountains and looted a treasure trove full of weapons from its guts – pistols, rifles, carbines, combat armour, grenades and grenade launchers, trucks, jeeps and Humvees (hell, they even found choppers, but no one knew how to fly them). It took around six months for them to eat up the base’s larder of freeze-dried rations but by then they were already tired of hiding in the mountains. So, they took all their shiny new toys south and set their sights on Denver. They attacked the city less than two weeks ago and already they’d conquered half of it – everything west of Interstate 25 was _their_ territory now.  

 

That girl, McCullough, told us all of this as we snuck out of the inner city through Park Avenue West. When I asked Parker if it was smart to leave without the Dodge Ram, he said we didn’t have a choice. “We’ll go back for it when we need it,” he said. The truth is it _was_ too dangerous to go back because the whole of downtown was _crawling_ with Foragers. With their military jeeps marooned behind the North Broadway car wall, the Foragers were forced to patrol the streets east of it on foot. We had to sneak past them, alley to alley, all the way from Five Points to East Colfax Avenue.

 

“There’s a colony of survivors living here from the time before,” she explained. At the time we’d hidden ourselves behind a dumpster somewhere between the bombed-out St. Joseph’s Hospital and North Downing Street to avoid a Forager recon party, “Their leader was a colonel in the US Army. After the Occupation he helped them seal off the city exits and build villages out of the ruins. He got the people back on their feet.”

 

I remember thinking how eerily familiar that sounded. And then Parker asked her what _her_ story was. I remember wondering why the fuck he cared.

 

“I don’t _have_ a story,” she said. “But no, I’m not from around here if that’s what you mean. I was passing through Colorado with a… a friend. Ennis.”

 

I asked her what happened to him and watched McCullough’s eyes sour. “…He killed himself.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” The Forager patrol went by without spotting us. She lowered her butcher knife and led us up to the alleyway entrance. “I came here looking for supplies when I got ambushed by a Forager scout. He broke my jaw, but I survived. _He_ didn’t. That’s when the colonel found me. I hadn’t planned on sticking around, but… he has a convincing kind of way about him.”

 

We slipped back onto Park Avenue West once the Foragers were out of sight. We turned left onto 16th Avenue and followed it all the way east to City Park Esplanade where the battle scars of the conflict with the Foragers began to fade. There were no more road blocks or smoke trails, no more RPG-inflicted asphalt craters or forgotten corpses. We’d come to a part of the city that the Foragers hadn’t attacked yet, where displaced bands of frightened men and women fled east. I realized then why we found Cole Village so empty – its people were fleeing from the Foragers.

 

At the end of the road was an old high school fortified into a base by barbed wire fencing and nine-foot high sniper roosts. Hundreds of wailing villagers gathered together at its front steps demanding shelter. I remember a small group of guards letting them in (two-by-two) at the doors – they had nothing but cudgels and crowbars for protection.

 

“This is where we part ways,” said McCullough. “Go inside, pretend to be a townie, they’ll give you as much food and water as you can carry – then make a break for it. Don’t stick around. The Foragers will be here by nightfall and they’ll kill or capture anyone they can get their hands on.”

 

She wasn’t lying. The car wall on North Broadway slowed them down but it was only a matter of time before they broke through – and when they did no fucking crowbar could protect the place from an M72 LAW. What bothered me was how little McCullough seemed to care. “Shouldn’t we warn them?” I asked.

 

She shrugged. “That’s up to you. Adios.”

 

“Wait,” Parker said. “Where are _you_ headed?”

 

The girl’s eyes sharpened. “…Why?”

 

**…My thoughts exactly** , I thought.

 

“This is a war, right?” He said. “Well we’ve got guns. Lots of ‘em. They’re in our pick-up downtown. Take us with you, let us supply up, and they’re yours.”

 

Parker was telling the truth but there was no way McCullough could know that. Still, her eyes fell on the M16s strapped to Parker’s back. A couple of teenager wanderers with an assault rifle – maybe that was evidence enough – and it was. The girl glared at him like he was crazy. I’ll bet she thought, _‘why the fuck would they wanna wade even deeper into this fucking mess?’_ and she wouldn’t have been wrong. It was a dumb bargain. It was an _unnecessary_ one, too. All the food we needed (or at least enough to have lasted us for a few days) we could’ve gotten from that outpost. But it wasn’t _my_ plan. Parker didn’t check with _me_ before he made that stupid agreement with her. It was like he didn’t even remember I was there.

 

McCullough looked confused at first, like she suddenly found herself staring into the face of an idiot, and then her frown transformed into a dirty little smile. Without another word she tightened the Velcro straps on her backpack and turned south towards Sullivan Gateway, gesturing for Parker and me to tag along. Parker followed her. I followed him.

 

I was such a fucking fool.

 

When we left that mall in downtown Denver, I was dumb enough to think that the biggest danger to us was the Foragers, but I was wrong. Jesus fucking Christ, I couldn’t have been _more_ wrong. No, no, no. But I know _now_. The biggest danger to Parker and me wasn’t the Foragers or the 55ers – it was McCullough.

 

And, like always, I never saw it coming.

 

**********

 

They walked south from City Park onto East Colfax Avenue then headed east past the old National Jewish Health building which by then was little more than a half-collapsed mound of rubble (the complex was bombed by the 55ers in 2002 as a warning to the ‘Christ Killers’). The road ahead was pockmarked with potholes and weeded over at the cracks – making it difficult to navigate – but McCullough led Jay and Parker all the way east from Denver into Aurora and turned south on Peoria Street. There were road blocks every fifty yards and a pair of Winchester-totting gunmen behind each one. To Jay they looked haggard and sleep-deprived (judging by their baggy eyes and five o’clock shadows) but they were alert and they waved McCullough through without question. She took them all the way south into Del Mar Park.

 

It used to be a resort park (back before America collapsed upon itself). Car parks and drive-thrus and plazas clustered the upper half of the site and an open field occupied the lower. There were playgrounds, tennis courts, swimming pools, batting areas and Burger Kings – all since disused or repurposed as the survivors transformed the entire grounds into a refugee camp.

 

Like East High School, Del Mar Park was now surrounded by over a mile’s worth of barbed wire fencing and all points of entry were either blockaded by cement-filled trucks and RVs or guarded by woodwork sniper towers. They’d erected hundreds of tents and triages around the roadsides and car parks, where the wounded and dying wailed on rusty pop-up beds and hammocks and lawn chairs as an overworked handful of medically-trained townsfolk administered first aid. Med supplies were low. As Jay passed by one tent, he saw a three-person silhouette casted against the sheets; a nurse pinning a wounded man upon a table as a second man took a hacksaw to his leg. There was no morphine to hand, judging by his screams. The boy cringed.

 

The streets were just as frantic. Armed patrols walked the grounds in groups of five or six. Pick-up trucks peeled by bringing in more wounded from the surrounding villages or driving back out to rescue more from the fighting with the Foragers. One of those pickups (almost empty on its way out) stopped nearby as McCullough, Parker and Jay headed for an old building with huge red lettering on it that said KEY BANK. A man jumped out of the rear cabin and landed in front of the three of them; a slender figure in his late forties, a man of middling height with hazelnut hair shaved down to a buzzcut and an old Winchester 9422 hanging from his shoulder.

 

“McCullough,” he said. “Whatcha got there? Not like you to bring in stragglers.”

 

The blonde girl shrugged at him. “The colonel will want to talk to them, Tom.”

 

“Why? We got enough mouths to feed as it is.”

 

“We ain’t staying,” quipped Parker.

 

Tom’s tombstone teeth curled into a lopsided smile. “I don’t believe I was talking to you, boy.”

 

Parker balled a fist. But before he swung it at Tom’s face, McCullough stepped in between them. “See those M16s on their backs? They’ve got a whole stash of them hidden away downtown. You know the Foragers picked our armouries clean whilst we weren’t looking – he _will_ want to talk to them.”

 

Sudden talk of guns assuaged his mistrust. _Some_. Tom cast Parker a hard eye before he climbed back into the pickup truck and slapped the door. The driver revved up and peeled off down the road towards the North Peoria Street gate. Parker watched him go with a scowl. “What the FUCK is his deal?”

 

McCullough smiled to herself. “That’s Tom Cherry, he’s kind of the second-in-command around here. And yeah, he’s a piece of shit… but he isn’t dumb. He’s smart enough not to trust out-of-towners.”

 

“Aren’t _you_ an out-of-towner?”

 

“Exactly,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”

 

The Key Bank building was across the street. Parker and Jay followed McCullough over to its glass doors and into the lobby where all the old hallmarks of a banking institution had been stripped away. There were nail holes and gaps in the dust where old sofa chairs and desks had been yanked up and bundled away for building supplies or kindling. All the wall posters were ripped off and the flower pots thrown out and the carpeting cut off – the room had been completely stripped down and its furniture replaced with a column of aluminium tables locked together into a huge one decked over with maps of both the city and the state. The room was dark save for the burning wax candles and oil lamps. And at the far end of the tables sat a tall, broad-shouldered black man in faded military fatigues. He looked tired. His weary eyes followed the nib of his Sharpie as he drew a line along a map of the city. He didn’t notice his guests until one of them greeted him.

 

“Colonel,” McCullough said.

 

He didn’t look up. “ _Lieutenant_ -Colonel, kid. As in oak leaf, not eagle. Not that it matters anymore, really. Come to think of it… I was on my 21st year of service right when all went to shit, wasn’t I? Now _there’s_ a damning thought,” He finally looked up from the map. “And who are you two boys?”

 

“I’m Jay,” I said. “This is Parker.”

 

 “…Well. Pardon my manners, boys. I’m Ned Creighton,” He paused for a moment to pull off his reading glasses. He glared at McCullough. “…More runaway slaves…?”

 

“No sir,” Jay interjected before either of them could jump in. McCullough didn’t really know their situation and he didn’t trust Parker to explain it without offending this man. The older boy wasn’t much for manners or formality. “We come from a town up north called Polk.”

 

“Polk…”

 

“You’ve heard of it?”

 

“I _have_ ,” Ned scratched the stubble under his chin, little black and grey coloured hairs balled up into tiny little peppercorns – he hadn’t shaved in a long time. “My battalion was posted there… 11 years ago? Yes, 11 years. Damn.”

 

Ned was with the 4th Infantry Division. Jay was too young to remember much about them, only what is father told him (that they were garrisoned in Polk High School throughout most of the Occupation) and what Parker told him (that some of their soldiers snuck down to town some nights and snort coke and whore around with Sister Johnson’s mother).

 

“It was destroyed by the 55ers,” explained Jay. “We escaped with one of our town guard’s trucks and drove south looking for supplies when we stumbled into… all of this.”

 

Out the corner of his eye, Jay saw Parker smile at the lie.

 

Ned frowned. “I see. Well boys, I’m sorry to hear that, but there’s not much I can do for you. The Republic’s made room for outsiders as McCullough here can tell you… but now’s not the time to welcome new folk.”

 

“We hadn’t thought to stay,” said Jay. “That truck we took – we were halfway here when we realized it was full of guns. M16s, I think. Plenty of ammo too. We didn’t really have a use for it but then we saw that you guys might need them, so… we were thinking we could do a trade? Whatever supplies you can spare – food, clothes, meds – anything.”

 

The Lieutenant-Colonel mulled on that a spell. He gestured for Jay, Parker and McCullough to join him by the table. Next to his closest map there was a plastic jug full of lemon water and a stack of Styrofoam cups. Ned poured four cups and passed three of them around. Jay gulped his whole. It was lukewarm but good. He asked for more.

 

“Help yourself,” said Ned. “You know, I remember your town. Real sweet people too – good Christians, good Americans. It was the summer of ’03 when my men and I got the call to deploy north. The 55ers had overrun Fort Collins and were bombing the hell out of Denver, they even choked off trade by raiding goods trucks on the interstate highways. Our job was simple – garrison off the I-25, retake Fort Collins to stop the flow of bombs to Boulder and Denver, then hold the Wyoming border and reopen trade in the northern half of Colorado. And we did it. By winter of ’04 we’d driven those bastards back north and my battalion was sent _here_ to help rebuild the city, and by summer of ’05 there was even talk of going north and retaking Wyoming. And then in ’06 we got the call out of Fort Carson.”

 

“The call?”

 

“The call to withdraw,” said Ned. “ _‘All military personnel stationed within the Denver Metropolitan Area are to withdraw and regroup at Fort Carson with immediate effect’_.”

 

“They say why?” Asked Parker. He was engaged. He didn’t really like long conversations, but he was always curious about the goings on of the outside world and the history of the Occupation.

 

Ned frowned at his water cup. “No. The rumour mill’s always running, though – desertions, secessions, rebellions, nullification – but no one knows anymore. All I knew, all I cared about, was that if my battalion left this city then the thousands of citizens still living in it had no defence left against the 55ers. So? We defied our orders and we stayed. We came together, soldiers and citizens, and we fortified all the city exits, secured the water towers and power plants for as long as we could keep them going, built up villages around the best garden plots and started raising our own livestock again. We took hunting parties into the Rockies for deer meat, pooled all our fuel and preserved it with stabilizers, brewed our own beer, grew our own fruit and veg – we turned this whole city into a colony of little towns who shared what they had with each other like folks used to do back before… and we called it the **Republic of Denver**. We were going to be what America always was – a shining beacon – and once the government got back in control of things, we’d be right here waiting for them. That was the dream.”

 

“And then came the Foragers,” said McCullough. It was all an old story for her, so she wasn’t as riveted by it as Jay and Parker were. She sat on the other side of the table picking dirt from her nails with her butcher’s knife.

 

The Mixon boy thought back to that rotten old Winchester that Tom Cherry carried. After nearly 10 years of exercise he could only imagine how frail and prone to malfunction the battalion’s weapons were. Ned clutched a fist on the table. His almond-coloured eyes were dark with anger and frustration, but also doubt. Jay saw it plain as day. “…We’ve got organization and numbers over them, but they’ve got _all_ the firepower on their side.”

 

“Which is why you’re gonna need the guns,” said Parker. Jay balked at him. He sounded sly when he was aiming for slick.

 

“ _If_ we keep fighting back,” said McCullough. “We could always cut our loses.”

 

Ned glared at her. “…We are NOT having that conversation again.”

 

“Half the damn town is having it. The Johnsons and the O’Leary’s took six other families with them and left for Colorado Springs a few days ago – that’s _half_ our best nurses. And more are gonna join them once the Foragers cross the I-25.”

 

“They _won’t_ … not for now, anyway. I’ve sent platoons to Curtis Park, Lodo, Lincoln Park, Baker and Washington Park. That’s good soldiers out there. They’ll slow the bastards down. But right now, we need to think about-”

 

Ned stopped mid-sentence when a woman dressed in navy blue scrubs strode in through the cracked glass doors, wiping blood from her hands with a towel. She wasn’t far off her fifties (judging by the crow’s feet cornering her silvery eyes) but there was an ageless quality to her looks – her high cheekbones, cupid’s bow lip and wavy blonde hair – that was built for a straight kind of man to fall for. But like Ned and Tom Cherry before her, she looked horribly tired. She strode up to the Lieutenant-Colonel’s chair and frowned.

 

“I’ve sutured Sgt Oakstaff’s wounds,” she said. “He’ll be back on his feet in a day as long as he keeps resting.”

 

Ned nodded thankfully. “That’s welcome news, honey. Let me introduce you to two new… guests. This here is Jay and Parker. Boys? This is my wife, Sarah.”

 

The Polk boys said “hello” to her and in return she muttered an equally unenthused “hi boys” in their general direction. “Ned, I’m sorry, but I’ve been on my feet for the last seventeen hours and I need some sleep before Tom brings in the next lot of survivors. Just wake me up before nightfall, okay?”

 

There was a rear door just a few paces shy of the tables. The door was slightly ajar and revealed a cushioned spring mattress – the first clean mattress Jay had seen since they left Polk. Sighing, Sarah wiped the sweat from her brow and stalked off towards it.

 

Ned frowned. “…Honey.”

 

Sarah stopped. She sighed once more (as if for the thousandth time that day) then reversed her steps back to her husband’s side and planted a kiss on his forehead. After that she went straight into the side room and shut the door behind her.

 

The room fell silent.

 

“It’s… been a trying time these last few weeks,” Ned fingered his wedding band distractedly. “Sometimes I wonder how this town holds it all together…” Then he snapped back into focus. “Alright. In exchange for a week’s worth of supplies we’ll take those M16s and-”

 

“We need fuel too,” said Parker. “That included in the deal?”

 

Ned’s frown hardened. “I wasn’t finished. We’ll give you a week’s worth of supplies in exchange for the M16s… and your help.”

 

Parker’s eyes darkened. “…Help with what?”

 

But by then McCullough was already onto the thrust of the conversation. She swung her dirty boots off the table and glowered beneath her lemon-and-black hood. “Colonel, I don’t need their help to get it back, especially not now. Besides you know I work better on my own.”

 

“It’s not up to you, kid. You came back empty-handed and shot the last time, we can’t afford to lose our best tracker… not now. We _need_ that equipment.”

 

Jay watched Parker’s eyes smoulder – he was getting annoyed. He’d put the deal at risk if he opened his mouth and said something stupid to Ned. Anticipating the train wreck in his mind, the younger boy quickly jumped in quickly before it happened, “Could you tell us what you’re talking about?”

 

Ned took the Sharpie he was using earlier and pointed to spot on the map with it. “After the Foragers’ first attack I ordered a pull-out of all our people west of the I-25 and one of my boys ended up beaching a Humvee downtown – but it’s no ordinary set of wheels. It’s got the last working minigun left in the city. Better still, the Foragers don’t know about it. I’ve sent McCullough out a couple of times to retrieve it, but-”

 

“I _don’t_ need help,” she said bitterly.

 

Parker smirked at her.

 

“It’s _not_ a request,” said Ned. “Take these two with you to collect the Humvee and the guns then circle back to Del Mar Park. That’s the deal, boys. Take it or leave it.”

 

**********

 

Ned Creighton reminded me of my father.

 

Danny Mixon never put his hands on a weapon, of course, and he sure as hell wasn’t black. And he didn’t consider himself much of a patriot. For my father, America was only ever _halfway_ to achieving the ideals its founding fathers espoused. But he _cared_ about people… he cared about people he had no business caring about and Ned was the same way. I saw it plain. And I knew how it would end.

 

But it wasn’t until I looked through his maps that I started respecting him. Over the course of nine years he had secured most of the city, from Elyria Swansea (north) to Wellshire (south). He even opened the city’s reach into Wheat Ridge and Lakewood (east) and incorporated parts of Aurora (west) including Del Mar Park and the Buckley Air Force Base. For those parts of the city he abandoned, mainly Hampden South and everything east of Stapleton, he used what little construction equipment was left running to demolish them and set up middens for their waste.

 

Black circles demarked the areas converted into villages and there were precisely 36 of them (each one sheltering about 100 people). And according to his notes those villages begat a veritable shit-ton of produce – tomatoes, apples, cabbages, carrots, berries; all of which their communities shared with each other. Collectively they reared thousands of chickens, pigs, cows and even horses. He drew asterisks at certain points to represent hidden larders and stockpiles (red for medicine, yellow for food, black for guns and ammo, etc) and blue ticks next to those asterisks confirming that they’d been successfully retrieved.

 

The larger hospitals such as UCH and Saint Joseph were abandoned but only because they didn’t have enough generators to run them – instead Ned routed sick folks to smaller clinics across the city and had his battalion build local infirmaries, one for each village. And he wasn’t content to protect them – he insisted that they protect themselves too. He had his soldiers set up gun ranges in City Park for mandatory firearms and hand-to-hand combat training for the townsfolk.

 

I was even more impressed by Ned’s notes. He had hundreds of multi-coloured Post-It notes stapled to his maps and each one contained fun-sized nuggets of handwritten information -- everything from livestock and population counts to lists of criminal incidents. Local courts were maintained to settle petty disputes whilst more serious crimes (like rape and murder) were tried by civilian juries selected at random. Neither Ned Creighton nor Tom Cherry participated in adjudication because the law was independent of the battalion. And although they were the founders of the Republic Ned was only its _symbolic_ leader. Ultimately, the Republic of Denver was run by a civilian council consisting of 36 elected officials (one from each village) and Ned was only ever called to intervene when they were deadlocked – which wasn’t often. 

 

Understand that there’s a reason I’m telling you all of this – that it was _remarkable_.

 

The Republic of Denver was everything Pastor Evans tried to do in Polk but _better_ , with none of the religious bullshit getting in the way. It wasn’t just a makeshift shanty town cobbled together out of the decaying guts of a forgotten city, it was a whole new way of life. People were living off the land again, but the state no longer had any oversight on their lives. It was the utopian pretence those fucking 55ers used to aspire to before the allure of slaves and robbery and rape revealed them for what they really were. The Republic wasn’t just a pipe dream. It was a man’s life’s work writ large and made whole, a desperate breath of civilization in a sea of decay. It was Ned Creighton’s magnum opus – the greatest thing he would ever do with his life.

_No wonder he wasn’t prepared to give up on it._

 

Forager-held areas were circled off with a bright yellow highlighter – everything between State Highway 121 and Interstate 25. 16 villages had fallen and over 40 secret larders with them (and most of those stashes were black). He _desperately_ needed our guns because he _desperately_ believed in his Republic, his life’s work and worth. And that desperation was so strong he couldn’t see that the bigger threat standing right next to him – just like my father.

 

…Just like me.

 

**********

 

Jay barely knew anything about sex when he and Parker first started cornholing. He knew that people did it a lot in the old world and _not_ just to make babies (at least before the GFC took hold) but he’d never really had that “birds and the bees” conversation with his father. Everything he learned was from Parker; like how to ‘squat out’ (like he was doing a shit) and keep his back arched to ease the cock in. Taking the head was hard because it was the thickest part of Parker’s dick – but once it pushed through the remaining seven inches slid in like grease – and there was no feeling in this world quite like it. Normally.

 

But Parker was really _rough_ that night.

 

They had been shown to their room for the night; the master bedroom of one of the repurposed townhouses on the southside of Del Mar Park. Jay had no clue how tired he really was until he saw that freshly made bed and collapsed onto it – it was most comfortable thing he’d touched since they’d left Polk. He didn’t even bother to get undressed. 

 

Jay was out like a light for a couple hours at best, he was only _vaguely_ aware of it when the mattress beneath his back depressed with a sudden extra weight and an eager pair of hands started unzipping his jeans and pulling off his shirt. Jay was slightly more aware of being rolled onto his belly, but he didn’t wake up until that spit-lubed cockhead forced it way into his asshole.

 

His eyes shot open. “W-what the fuck?”

 

The air _stank_ of pre-cum. Parker usually let Jay get into the mood by stroking himself for a little while but not that night. He was too horny, too impatient. All Jay could do was groan into the moonlit darkness as Parker whispered at him to “relax” and “open up” as his cock slowly slid in deep enough to bottom out at the hips. They both caught their breath for a second, and _just_ a second, before the older boy started _pounding_ the younger one’s asshole.

 

**Fuck…!** Jay’s knuckles went white as he clutched whole fistfuls of the bed sheets and held on for dear life as Parker’s cock thrust into him like a piston. Pumpkinhead was _never_ gentle in bed but he was never like this either. **Oh God…! Oh God!**

 

Jay couldn’t say how long it went on for. It felt like hours. But it was the longest, hardest fuck of his life. Past a certain point his senses numbed to everything except that burning hot cock ploughing its way into his rectum – he couldn’t even hear his own moans over the clap of Parker’s sweaty thighs slapping down on his ass. Beyond that, all he heard was Parker’s gruff Neanderthal growls vibrating against his ear.

 

Until he stopped.

 

Blood thumped in Jay’s ears. He still had Parker’s shaft buried deep in his guts. He dared not move. But then the older boy did it for him. Jay moaned like a girl as (inch by tantalizing inch) Parker’s cock slowly slid out and the older boy flipped him limply onto his back. He landed on a wet stain where he’d already shot three days’ worth of cum into the sheets – it felt cool and sticky against his hot skin. And then he looked up at Parker, shirtless and sweaty, his shoulders and neck bright red beneath the freckles, but he looked angry for some reason. Jay couldn’t make sense of it until Parker guided his dick back towards Jay’s (now) gaping asshole. That’s when it hit him.

 

**He didn’t come yet.** Jay thought. **He didn’t…** “UGH!”

 

The cock was so slick and his hole so open it just glided in like a skewer. Jay’s whole body spasmed from shoulder to toe. Parker took him by the hips and rode him hard again, punching thrust after punching thrust and Jay smothered his screams through gritted teeth as his own stiff cock slapped against his stomach.

 

“Squeeze down on it,” ordered Parker. “Make it feel like a pussy.”

 

(If it was possible) he was even less gentle the second time around, but somehow Jay heard the command. He tried to tighten his ass muscles against his cock but didn’t work, it just made more friction, and Jay was so tired and wiped out that he couldn’t think. He could only lay there, limply, as Parker fucked away at him for a release that he couldn’t get even as he made Jay cum for the second time in forty minutes. The Mixon boy cringed as his cock shot a stream of jism into his own eye. It felt gross and goofy, the kind of thing Parker would’ve laughed at if he wasn’t struggling to get off. Instead the older boy pulled out of Jay’s ass again and climbed up his body, pinning down his arms with his shins until his heavy balls were swinging two inches shy of Jay’s neck.

 

“Ouch…!” The added weight hurt his arms. “Dude, get off my-”

 

And then he shoved his cock into Jay’s mouth.

 

The boy gagged, naturally. He hated ass-to-mouth, always had done, even though he always did his best to keep himself clean down there (for Parker’s sake more than his own) the thought of it always made him sick. But Parker held Jay’s head down with both hands and jabbed that long, throbbing cock down his throat and wouldn’t let him up until he came. And he did come. _Eventually_. Jay felt the spasms through his open lips as Parker finally shot his load in gooey gouts, one after the other, each one of which he swallowed. The growls and moans of release were so loud he worried that his father might here – and they he remembered where he was and what had happened. It was a twitch, an old reflexive worry. Danny Mixon was dead… and this wasn’t Polk.

 

A now satisfied Parker dragged his prick out of Jay’s mouth. It was sticky with threads of cum and phlegm and it flopped onto his muscled stomach as he landed on the other side of the bed with a “Woof!” and a few minutes later (after catching his breath) he crashed out like nothing had even happened.

 

Suddenly Jay was desperate for a cigarette.

 

He climbed out of the bed on wobbly legs then fondled his way through the darkness to find his jeans. He found them hanging off a desk chair. He weakly threaded his feet through the leg holes and zipped up. There was a noticeable bulge where he’d tucked the American Spirits into his back pocket. Sighing, Jay opened the sliding glass door and went out onto the balcony.

 

The night air felt cool and calming against his bare chest. It was a nice feeling. It helped him ignore his aching jaw and asshole. He took out a cigarette, struck a match to it, and watched the ashes burn a bright orange glow at the tip.

 

Off in the west, very thin columns of smoke rose into the starry black skies and if you listened closely, you could hear the distant rattle of automatic fire. Jay would’ve noticed it himself if not for the whispers. They weren’t loud – the cicadas were louder, really – but they were distinct. Jay’s ears followed the sound past the driveway and across Del Mar Circle Street to the ring of oak trees bulwarking the asphalt from the weedy, long unshorn grass fields. He spotted two figured cuddling beneath the shadows of an oak tree – and he was just about close enough to make out who they were.

 

It was Sarah Creighton, Ned’s wife, wrapped in the arms of his second-in-command, Tom Cherry. All her coldness was gone. She had her thin arms curled around the man’s neck, his hands upon her hips, and they shared a secret kiss in the moonlight.

 

“Did you talk to him?” Asked Tom.

 

Sarah bit her lip remorsefully. “I can’t even look him in the eye anymore. He still loves me, Tom.”

 

“Goddamn it, Sarah, this ain’t about _us_ anymore. This town is doomed and he’s the only one who can’t see it, he’s getting so desperate he’s dragging _kids_ into this mess to do our gun-running for us. It ain’t right and you know it! But you’re the only one who can convince him to leave – the others won’t go without him.”

 

Jay watched Sarah rest her head against Tom Cherry’s barrelled chest. In reply he scooped up her back in his brawny arms, held her tight as a life preserver, and kissed a little bald spot at the crown of her flaxen wavy locks.

 

“I’ll try,” she said. “I’m so exhausted, Tom. I’m so fucking exhausted…”

 

**********

 

You know back then I just though Sarah was a piece of shit. It was a simple calculus, really. Ned reminded me of my father – the caring nature, the belief in people, his love of his work – and Sarah was like the retarded townspeople that condemned his son to death. Sheep are sheep and that’s all they ever will be… no one pays them to think, they just act. That’s what I thought of her… I thought: she was a selfish whore doing what selfish whores did since the dawn of time – getting _hers_ on her back no matter who it fucking hurt. That’s what I thought _then_ at least. But now? Heh. Let’s just say it took me a while before I realized that the real villain of that little piece of post-apocalyptic theatre wasn’t really Sarah, it was Tom Cherry.

 

A sheep’s a sheep and a whore’s a whore.

 

Feed a sheep a carrot? He’ll follow you. Feed a whore some dick? She’ll follow you. But who’s doing the feeding? That’s the motherfucker you need to worry about. My only regret is how long it took me to realize that. Ten guesses as to who I’m talking about in _my_ case? Nah. You’re a bright listener, you’ll figure it out…

 

**********

 

Jay woke up alone.

 

The sheets were still soggy with cum and sweat and spit. When he looked over at the other bed, he found it empty and unmade. **Parker?** His backpack and Luger were right where he’d left them – beside the door, but he was gone. Jay’s stomach sank as he wondered (for a hot minute) if Parker had headed out without him… at least up until he heard the older boy chuckling from another room – so he slipped on his new (old) boots and followed the sound.

 

The (temporary) one-floor apartment that Ned gave them was barebones and hollowed out. Most of the old furniture and rugs were gone. When Jay walked into the lounge was almost empty save for a spotty sofa drawn up against a pinewood dinner table covered with a white sheet. There was a large Tupperware container full of cold boiled eggs and bread rolls on it (Parker had woofed down half already) and splayed out over the sofa was McCullough. She had her scuffed black boots propped up over one armrest and her hooded head propped up over the other. Her arms were folded. From where Jay was standing you couldn’t even tell she was awake – not until she greeted him.

 

“Mornin’, _Pee Wee_ ,” she said smirking.

 

Jay frowned.

 

“I never said you get to call him that,” Parker’s cheeks were puffed up with cold eggs as he said it.

 

“Why not, _you_ do?” McCullough’s hood fell off as she sat up straight and Jay saw her face clearly for the first time. She’d trimmed that dirty blonde hair down to a brush cut overnight. Her nose was sharp, her sallow skin dotted with bright red acne, and her lips were the colour of turkey-flesh. She wasn’t pretty at all. “Why do you let him talk to you like that? You two guys brothers or something?”

 

**Not that it’s any of your business** , thought Jay. “We’re friends.”

 

“Okay,” McCullough cast Jay a faint smile. He mistrusted it. “Well dig in before your _friend_ eats it all.”

 

Both the eggs and the bread were still warm which was surprising. Jay openly wondered about it as he sat down to eat (he was even hungrier than he realized) and McCullough explained that they had a wheat field just outside the city. “The Foragers destroyed it though,” said the girl. “Eat up. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

 

After breakfast Jay and Parker grabbed their gear from their bedroom. McCullough warned them against bringing the ‘noisy’ M16s – she herself carried only her sheathed butcher knife and M11 – so Parker settled for his Luger and Jay his M9. Once they strapped up their backpacks all three of them left the apartment buildings and headed out to the upper half of Del Mar Park. Its occupancy had grown overnight from around 600 people to 1100 and it told _everywhere_ they walked. Crying townsfolk sat on sidewalks and grass patches looking dead-eyed and shell-shocked. Most had nothing but clothes on their backs. Others had horses with bulging leather saddlebags or baggage carts hitched up to their mules with what whatever precious few belongings they had time enough to pack. The Republicans had set up three dozen more tents for their people in Aurora Plaza – but they were only temporary shelters.

 

“Ned wants to evacuate everyone into Buckley Air Force Base,” said McCullough as they made their way through the cries and screams of the camp towards the Key Bank building. “It’s kind of like a fall-back point. Once all the Republicans are safe and we’ve brought back the guns and the Humvee, he’ll mobilize the whole battalion and strike back at the Foragers. Not that I-”

 

McCullough stopped mid-sentence as she noticed what Jay spotted a few second earlier; a crowd of hundreds gathered around the Key Bank building and murmuring to themselves. **What the hell is going on?** He wondered. Parker and McCullough pushed their way through to the front (with Jay following behind) as six lightly armed militiamen walked out from through the glass doors with AKs and 12-gauges. Then, just a few minutes after them came their grey-haired, scar-faced captain, the one Jay and Parker saw in Cole Village yesterday.

 

**Oh god** , Jay thought, **oh god…**

 

“MY NAME IS WUHRER!” He yelled to the crowd. “I’M THE CAPTAIN OF THE 13TH MILITIA OF THE FIFTY-FIVE THOUSAND ARMY! SOME OF Y’ALL MAY ALREADY KNOW ME! MOST OF YOU, PROBABLY NOT. NO DOUBT ALL OF Y’ALL THINK OF ME AS YOUR ENEMY! WELL _TODAY_ … I’M NOT. THE FORAGERS WERE EXCOMMUNICATED FROM OUR ORGANIZATION BECAUSE OF THEIR UNGODLY TASTE FOR HUMAN FLESH… AND I WISH YOU ALL LUCK IN DEFEATING THEM. ME AND MY MEN… WE MIGHT EVEN BE ABLE TO HELP YOU IN THAT REGARD! BUT WE HAVE A PRICE! THERE ARE TWO BOYS ON THE RUN IN THIS CITY. ONE WITH DARK HAIR… BY THE NAME OF PARKER EVANS! THE OTHER WITH BROWN HAIR… BY NAME OF JAMES MIXON! IN THE PAST FOUR DAYS THOSE TWO BOYS HAVE STOLEN A TRUCK-FULL OF MY GUNS AND MURDERED _FIVE_ OF MY MEN… INCLUDING MY SON! AND I HAVE REASON TO SUSPECT THEY MIGHT BE HIDING HERE IN DEL MAR PARK! SO, I SAY THIS TO ALL OF YOU! DO NOT TRUST THESE BOYS! THEY ARE ARMED… THEY ARE _DANGEROUS_ … AND ANY INFORMATION YOU CAN GIVE ME ABOUT THEM OR THEIR WHEREABOUTS… WILL BE REWARDED!”

 

There was an empty pickup truck at the edge of the Key Bank building’s pavement. The crowds moved aside as Wuhrer and his men marched over to it, jumped inside, then drove off up to Peoria Street gate where they left unimpeded. Jay kept his head down as the crowds around him chattered noisily about the two boys Wuhrer was talking about and instantly he was reminded of that day in the courthouse – the day his whole town condemned him to death and Brother Shaw gunned his father down like a deer. He looked to Parker, and even _he_ was worried.

 

And then someone snatched Jay’s wrist.

 

A strong arm _yanked_ the boy clean out of the crowd and he fell hard into the dirt, yelling for the person to let him go – but he wouldn’t. And it was Tom Cherry. Snarling, the Republic’s de-facto second-in-command dragged him across the car park and through the glass doors into the Key Bank building where he physically hurled Jay onto the moulding carpeted floor. Through the corner of his eye he saw McCullough and an angry Parker charging in with his Luger in hand, but as soon as he stepped through two Republican guards raised their hunting rifles at him and he froze.

 

Tom Cherry yelled at Jay to “get up!” so he slowly crawled onto his feet as Ned Creighton approached him, frowning.

 

“You lied to me,” said Ned.

 

A chill went down Jay’s spine. “We… we didn’t mean to.”

 

“You didn’t _mean_ to? So, you fed me an _accidental_ pack of lies? How does that work?”

 

McCullough stepped forward. “Colonel, you don’t need to-”

 

“Girl, you stay your ass outta this!” Barked Tom Cherry. “Ned, I knew these boys were trouble. I don’t know what the FUCK she was thinking bringing them here, but I _knew_ they were trouble! The last thing we need right now is to piss off the motherfucking 55ers by housing these two sons-of-bitches! I say we toss their asses out RIGHT NOW!”

 

Ned folded his arms and looked at Jay, square and hard. “I need you to tell me the truth, kid.”

 

**Tom Cherry is fucking your wife** , thought Jay. Somewhere in the background he heard Parker yell at him that they didn’t need to explain themselves, but Tom Cherry warned him to keep his mouth shut before he got capped. This had gone so bad so suddenly.

 

“We’re from Polk… that’s not a lie. Wuhrer and his men… they destroyed our town… that’s not a lie either. He… wanted to sell me as a slave and when we escaped… his son… followed us into an old high school and he… he tried to… to rape me.”

 

The coldness in Ned’s eyes wavered.

 

“It was self-defence…” Tears sprouted in Jay’s eyes as he recalled those awful moments in the principal’s office. “After that… we came into Denver… we found that truck… and we _did_ take it… but we needed it. We didn’t know it had all those guns… we just needed it to get away. I’m so sorry that I lied, but… we thought you wouldn’t trust us.”

 

Tom Cherry balked. “This doesn’t change a goddamned thing!”

 

“Enough,” said Ned. “McCullough, did you know about all this?”

 

“I swear to god, I didn’t…” She said. “They just said they got the guns from their hometown. You know me, Colonel. I wouldn’t risk bringing the 55ers into this.”

 

Ned mulled on all that had been said with a furrowed brow. His decision didn’t take long. “…My Pa used to say America was two things… the country and the country’s ideals… one might change, but the other stays the same,” He sighed. “Get moving. I want those guns and that Humvee here by nightfall, understood?”

 

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Ned! Seriously?” Tom Cherry was incredulous. “How can you trust these little bastards after what you just heard?”

 

Ned turned his hard glare towards his deputy. “I don’t trust anyone I don’t know, Tom. You should know that by now. But I trust the 55ers even _less_ … or have you forgotten that those slave-trading cretins are half the reason this country’s been torn to shreds? I did what you asked, I heard Wuhrer out… and I’m _not_ playing ball with a man like him. I want that equipment,” Ned turned back to Jay. “You hear me? Nothing’s changed. Bring me that Humvee _and_ the guns or our deal is moot and be damned what follows.”

 

**********

 

I never read _Moby Dick_. It was one of those old American greats my father always pushed me to read but I never got around to… sorry, Pop. Wish I did now. But at the end of the day everybody knows the plot – a bitter old sea captain’s quest for vengeance on the white whale that ate half his leg. Damn. It took me a while until I realized that _that_ was what Parker and I had become for Wuhrer – his white whale. Funny that. I couldn’t see it at first. Parker maybe, but _me_? What does it say about me that I couldn’t see myself as the white whale of _anyone’s_ story? Yeah, funny that. But that’s what were – Wuhrer’s white whale. I like to imagine how it must’ve been for him sometimes.

 

_Wuhrer_ , making Pastor Evans ply him with meds in exchange for a blind eye. _Wuhrer_ , being short changed on those meds and demanding retribution. _Wuhrer_ , being offered a slave (Jay Mixon) and deciding that wasn’t good enough. _Wuhrer_ , using that as an excuse to attack Polk, rob its supplies and enslave its women. _Wuhrer_ , who sent his son to capture that slave boy who escaped. _Wuhrer_ , who stumbled upon his son’s charred remains and swore vengeance. _Wuhrer_ , who followed us into Denver and demanded our heads.

 

I’ll bet _anything_ that Captain Ahab was an asshole. But assholes don’t care about the fucked-up shit _they_ do. Eat their leg or kill their son and they’ll come for you with all the wrath and righteousness of God. But everyone’s the protagonist of their own story, right? Everyone’s got to have their white whale.

 

So, who’s mine…?

 

**********

 

It was a sweltering day. Jay popped his shirt collar and swept the sweat from his brow. It was so hot that the air began to distort; the distant streets of leafy suburbia and white-painted fences rippling slowly before his eyes. Jay was a few paces shy of Parker and McCullough, who together looked like shadows beneath the sun. He held a hand over his eyes to block out its rays and spotted them fingering an old _Denver Metropolitan Area_ map. It was a three hour walk between Del Mar Park and downtown Denver.

 

They left around an hour after Wuhrer’s meeting with Ned and Tom Cherry and headed due west by the E 6th Avenue where they walked the craggy asphalt, which was bumpy from internal weed growth and erosion, and blockaded every 100 yards by Republican checkpoints. Each one was manned by fireteams of four, but they were poorly equipped. A handful of men had some Winchester rifles. A few more had a six-shooter each. The rest carried crowbars, baseball bats and meat cleavers – one even had a rake. They were a civilian guard (not the soldiers of Ned’s battalion) and as Jay passed them by, he knew that if the Foragers every got this far that these men stood no chance against them.

 

The three of them were waved through each checkpoint (without fuss) and so walked up to the dividing line between Sunnyvale and Highland Park, Havana Street, which they turned right onto. It was a straight shot through a long line of abandoned homesteads. Old Harleys and Hatchbacks rusted away in their driveways and half-opened garages beneath the shade of their broken, moss-covered roofs. It reminded Jay of what he used to think of as home.

 

McCullough stopped.

 

“What is it?” Asked Parker.

 

“Don’t you smell that?” There was an overturned ice cream truck nearby. McCullough climbed up onto its side (which was now its top), sweeping away the window’s broken glass with her boot, then took out some binoculars from her backpack and spied due west towards downtown. Jay asked her what she saw. “Smoke. And its only a few miles off, maybe an hour’s walk from here. The Foragers are close.”

 

The girl climbed back down, took the map out of her back pocket, then spread it out over the hot granite and waved for Jay and Parker to come to her. The three of them hunkered down to the haunches around the map like a campfire. “We’re gonna be crossing over into their territory sooner than we thought so we better get ourselves straight on the plan,” she pointed one of her dirty fingernails at a car lot halfway between Lodo and Five Points, just off Larimer Street. “This is where the Humvee is. And the guns?”

 

Parker took out his combat knife and poked a tiny hole into the map at the spot where they’d left the Dodge Ram – the indoor car park between Welton and 22nd Streets. “They’re in a pick-up on the first floor. It’s well hidden, they ain’t gonna find it.”

 

“So, what’s the plan?” Asked Jay.

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” McCullough moved her finger between the two points. “We go for the Humvee first since it’s deeper into Forager territory, then we double back for the pick-up.”

 

**Wait a minute…** “If it’s a three hour walk from here to Larimer Street then we should be done by midday, right? Do we drive back straight away, or do we wait for nightfall?”

 

Parker picked up on Jay’s train of thought. “We’ll be harder to spot at night, but… I don’t wanna wait around in Forager territory for eight hours.”

 

“At the rate they’re going they’ll probably hit Del Mar in a day anyway,” said McCullough. “Let’s not fuck around, let’s just get the equipment and go. Once we go past Forager lines no shooting unless it’s necessary, okay? Stick to my ass and we’ll be fine.”

 

Parker scoffed at her with a broad grin that Jay wasn’t sure he liked. “Fuck outta here, we know what we’re doing. Right, Pee Wee?”

 

**Why do you have to call me that in front of her?** Thought Jay. “…Right.”

 

After that (and after Parker took a leak behind the overturned ice cream truck) they kept moving. There was smoke in the air just like McCullough said and as they proceeded up Havana Street and turned left onto East 11th Avenue, Jay tasted it on his tongue. Along the way they passed by a huge campus that once belonged to the Community College of Aurora. Now it was one of the 36 villages of the Republic of Denver. Like the others, the grounds were fenced with a makeshift wall made up of wooden planks, barbed wire, old cars, cement, and slag piles. There were no sniper roosts but the highest roofs around the campus were repurposed into vantage points for lookouts. Further along, they witnessed a massive crush of Republicans streaming in from the east – not just screaming townswomen but soldiers from Ned’s battalion, many of them wounded and barely hobbling along. They huddled together at one of the main gates clawing for entry (and safety) as one of the civilian guards yelled into a battery-powered bullhorn; “PLEASE ENTER IN AN ORDERLY FASHION! EVERYONE WILL BE PROVIDED WITH ACCOMODATION!”

 

Further up the street beyond the campus the smoke trails were now visible by the naked eye – and the rattle of semi-automatic fire was distant but palpable. Jay, Parker and McCullough watched all the desperate townsfolk (numbering in the hundreds) of pour into the village as they kept moving along.

 

Parker smirked at them. “They’re all fucked, and they don’t even know it.”

 

Then McCullough smirked at _him_. “You’re an optimistic boy, aren’t you?”

 

“And you’re a dumb girl if you think I’m wrong,” he pointed at the walls around the campus. “What is that shit? It’s paper. Light that shit on fire, lob some RPGs in there, and then those guys are gonna be screaming to _get out_ , not in.”

 

Parker was right. He was a dick about it (of course) but he was right. The walls, the grass, the trees – a fire would spread through them like a disease. The walls couldn’t be climbed (from within or without) which meant that the only _exit_ points were the _entry_ points – the gates – and so all the Foragers had to do was use them as chokepoints to gun down the Republicans as they tried to escape. And the more Jay thought about it the more he realized that the same could be said for _any_ spot in the city. It was too big to defend and had too many places to hide in.

 

**Tom Cherry was right** , thought Jay. **Denver is doomed**.

 

“I’m not dumb, Parker,” said McCullough. “I get it. I see it. This place isn’t gonna last more than a few days… some M16s and an extra minigun isn’t gonna change it. Deep down I bet the Colonel knows it too.”

 

Parker frowned at her. “Then why even _bother_ with this shit?”

 

“Because Ned took me in,” she said. “Tom Cherry wanted to kick me out, but he looked out for me when he didn’t have to. I owe him. And even if I did leave… where would I go? There’s nothing out there except ruins and crazy people.”

 

Jay watched Parker’s eyes narrow as he spoke. “…You ever hear of Octavia Wilkes?”

 

Her reply was cut off by a dull clap, followed by the ‘whoosh’ of propellant cutting through the air. The girl screamed “GET DOWN!” and as they dove for the hot gravel Jay spotted a small black rocket hurtle into the crowd full of Republicans and explode. Jay felt the rumble in his cheek through the ground. The blast tore through the crowd’s heart and sent up a plume of dust, shrapnel and shorn limbs into the air as the survival townsfolk screamed and fled in all directions. Perched upon one of the campus’ old staff buildings was a Republican sniper, who quickly engaged his PSG-1 by the stock and cut down a Forager from a townhouse rooftop across the street who toppled backwards into an alleyway with his spent RPG-7 still in his hands and a bullet in his brain.

 

Over by the gate there was now a shallow crater with two limbless, headless torsos nestled in its smoking centre and a throng of townspeople (those who could) scattered away from it. Jay, Parker and McCullough, a few dozen yards clear of the epicentre, kept low.

 

“Shit!” Parker scratched the dust out of his hair. “The Foragers are here already?”

 

McCullough pulled her yellow hood back up. “Doubt it. Probably just a scout with a warning shot. I’ll bet they’re trying to drive the survivors out of the villages and into the streets… easier to pick them off.”

 

**We’re running out of time** , thought Jay. “Let’s keep moving.”

 

**********

 

Denver really _was_ a warzone.

 

We tailed McCullough off East 11th Avenue and into the back streets and residentials, first north into Boston Street then westward by East 13th Avenue past Yosemite, Syracuse and Oneida Streets to the North Monaco Parkway, the halfway point between Denver and Aurora. We were in the heart of Montclair, in a residential area thick with gnarled oak trees and weeded-over lawns, which provided plenty of cover for us as we picked our way north to East Colfax Avenue – the same highway we’d walked to get to Del Mar Park the day before – but now it was in the hands of the Foragers.

 

We hid behind a dumpster as we watched them.

 

They were a road crew of around thirty men; their jeeps and Humvees parked up together in a laager blocking all four exits (north towards Park Hill, east towards East Colfax, south to Montclair and of course west into downtown Denver) as they camped inside the centre with their spoils – six bound and gagged women and seven male corpses piled up into a mound. One of the Foragers checked the women for weapons whilst the others either stood guard or plotted the course ahead with their street maps. A few were raiding the local houses and a nearby gas station but emerged with nothing except spare tools and materials (rope, tarp, etc). It was high morning and there were no cookfires inside the camp, before long they would load up their trucks with meat and captives before riding out.

 

Me, Parker and McCullough slowly backed away.

 

What we didn’t know (but soon realized as we headed deeper west) was that, overnight, the Foragers had expanded their ‘occupied’ territory from the I-25 all the way east to Colorado Boulevard – State Highway 2, and that its two dozen scout teams combed everything between Colorado Boulevard and North Monaco Parkway. From Martin Luther King Boulevard in the north to State Highway 83 – they blocked off each street, went from house to house looting what precious little supplies they could find, killed any resistance they met, captured any women worth taking, then torched everything they could see that wasn’t strategically useful. By the time we made it to Capitol Hill everything from Park Hill to Hilltop was in flames, and that hot day became a _boiling_ one. The horizon behind us filled up with a dark orange glow and thick viscous clouds of smoke almost blotted out the sun. In a different day and time, it would’ve been Parker’s wet dream.

 

Forager-held territory fared little better, I recall.

 

The captured Republican villages became temporary concentration camps for those too weak or wounded to escape. The Foragers set up their own road blocks on main streets like North Downing and East 6th to stop the battalion from pushing back on them whilst their shock troopers regularly patrolled the side streets in jeeps. We avoided them by keeping to the back alleys, looping around the blocks that were too heavily guarded or waiting out the patrol jeeps and sneaking across the driveways. McCullough knew what she was doing, I’ll give her credit for that much. Her navigational skills were the best I’d ever seen aside from Pastor Evans. She had a knack for staying out of lines of sight, for predicting where people would look, diverting their attention with a well-timed stone throw or following the patterns of a patrol route… but it made slow going of the journey, and what should’ve been a three-hour walk became a nerve-racking an eight-hour slog through enemy territory.

 

By the time we reached Lawrence Street, the site of the beached Humvee, the sound of gunfire had ebbed away behind us and Foragers were all over the streets. Some guarded buildings of unknown significance whilst others patrolled the blocks with gnashing dobermans and bulldogs. The downtown blockades and car walls had all been dismantled. From every lamppost and traffic light they’d taken the disembowelled corpse of a battalion soldier and strung it up by its ankles. Every few minutes pickup trucks full of bound, weeping Republican women rolled by heading towards the Foragers’ base camp (according to Ned it was likely somewhere between the Mile-High Stadium and Sun Valley, on the western side of the Platte River).

 

We snuck into an apartment building overlooking the car park and crept down to its 2nd floor balcony, turfed with fake grass (I’ll never forget the stink of it) and decorated with rotted lawn furniture – ancient wicker chairs and grimy plastic tables covered over by white parasols matted with moss and bird shit. The three of us knelt by the guard rail and glanced across the street was the car park. Just beyond its wire fence and a cortege of abandoned vehicles was the Humvee itself, perched upon the edge of a crater by its rear – like someone had shot at the ground with an RPG or missile and someone else tried to drive over the gap and couldn’t make it. The Humvee itself was unguarded (you couldn’t even see it from street level) but a squad of Foragers had set up a cookfire in front of the wire fence, boiling up what looked to be a stew. A Pitbull slept near the fire and each man had a M203-equipped M16 on him.

 

McCullough (who clearly had been here before) went over the plan. “There’s a rear exit on the other side of the car park – it’s thin as paper you can just drive through it once you get it out of the crater.”

 

“And what are _you_ doing?”

 

“There’s a Forager camp around the block,” She patted her backpack. “I got a little surprise for ‘em. As soon as you hear the explosion, those guys at the front will run and check it out. That’s your chance. Once you get the Humvee, double back to the car park off Welton Street. I’ll meet you there, just wait for me.”

 

I watched Parker’s eyes narrow with what looked like concern. “What’s the fuck’s the point of that, we can just pick you up on the other side of the car park.”

 

“The blast won’t hold their attention for long,” McCullough pulled the 9mm from her back pocket and racked the slide. “But a little covering fire _should_. Don’t worry about me, I _know_ these streets. Just wait for me in Walton Street-”

 

And then we heard a scream.

 

We ducked lower and saw a family running down the street; a bespectacled Hispanic man bleeding from the nose and mouth, a middle-aged redheaded woman with the torn scraps of a sunflower dress barely clinging to her shoulders and hips, and a tow-haired teenage boy following close behind. They stopped in their tracks once they saw the Foragers by the wire fence. The three of them stood up from the cookfire exchanging grins and readying their weapons. “What’s we got here?” one of them said. The father yelled “turn back!” only to freeze again when a roaring Harley Davidson tore around the corner and skidded to a stop before them. A hulking man with a grin-full of golden teeth dropped the kickstand and leapt off the chopper with a 12-gauge in hand.

 

“Ya know what I hates most?” The gold-toothed man pumped that shotgun and tore off half the bespectacled husband’s face. “…When folk make me chase ‘em.”

 

His wife shrieked as the blood spray splattered her sunflower dress from breast to thigh. One of the other Foragers snuck up behind her, slugged her, then hurled her over his shoulder as she passed out. The gold-toothed man aimed the shotgun barrel at the teenage boy’s head, but he barely even noticed – he was too stunned by the sight of his near-headless father leaking blood and brain matter over the street.

 

“How’d these two get loose, Duggan?”

 

The gold-toothed man (Duggan, as he was called) strapped his shotgun and slung the unconscious mother over the chopper’s rear seat, then threw the boy over his shoulder like a deer. “Caught ‘em hiding in one of the apartment buildings over there yonder – probably waiting on us to pass. Don’t get caught out, ya hear? The Boss wants _every_ woman we can find ready for sale in Cheyenne.”

 

“They ain’t gon’ take us back,” said the thug. “Why’s he so set on that?”

 

Duggan shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. We got our orders, we follow ‘em. Tell ya what, ya sour bastard. We’ll have some fun with ‘em before we head back to base. Get ya belly full and ya cock up. Ya hear?”

 

Clearly Duggan oversaw this squad. His subordinate went back to his fellows around the cookfire and told his buddies about all the fun they were going to have later than night – they practically _salivated_ over it. And as I watched Duggan peel away, I realized that that was what failure meant in that moment – death for me and Parker, rape and slavery for McCullough. I was scared, I admit it. I was terrified. I was shaking. But I didn’t want either of them to see me looking weak, especially not Parker.

 

I had to be strong.

 

**********

 

McCullough let off two grenades. The first was a distant pop, barely audible, that kindled the attention of the three Forager guards camped out in front of the wire fence. They (and their collared pitbull) stood up and glared westward where a plume of dust rose above the car lot fencing and shouts of panic rang out, but it was the second blast, louder and larger than the first, that drew them away from the lot. McCullough (as Jay found out later) rolled her second grenade beneath one of the Foragers’ jeeps. The resulting blast tore a hole through its chassis and threw it belly up before it crash-landed into the distant encampment.

 

“Shit!” Said one of the three, grabbing his M16. “We’re under attack, let’s move!”

 

The three Foragers (led by their hound) quickly fled their camp to support the rest of Duggan’s squad. _That_ was the window. Jay and Parker, whom had hidden themselves behind an abandoned SUV, bounded across the street and scaled the padlocked wire fencing, slinging themselves over the top and landing in the dirt tracks. They ran through a honeycomb of discarded vehicles until they reached the beached Humvee perched on the edge of the crater. A few dozen yards away they heard an exchange of gunfire – sustained bursts of rifle fire against the odd pepper shot of a pistol. There wasn’t much time.

 

“Come on, Jay!”

 

The rear wheels dangled over the rim but hadn’t sunk in yet. Parker and Jay quickly slid into the crater, put their backs against its rear, and on the count of three they strained and struggled and slowly pushed it back onto even ground; its heavy-duty tyres crunching into the gravel. The Polk boys then ran around either side and climbed in. Everything was grimy bolted steel and padded leather, the dashboard and instrumental panel looked like scientists’ work desk. When Parker twisted the key in the ignition, its gauges (temp, press, level and volts) and rev counter lit up in bright green neon. The engine thrummed to life.

 

“You sure you know how to drive this thing?” Asked Jay.

 

Parker pulled an ignorant grin. “Well if I can’t, we’re fucked, Pee Wee!”

 

He depressed the clutch, shifted into first gear, hit the bite point, threw down the handbrake and accelerated out of the car lot. Like McCullough said the rear fence was nothing but plywood boards and wire fencing and the Humvee tore straight through it. As the wheel scrunched against the asphalt of Larimer Street they had a clear view of the Forager camp that McCullough attacked. Three of its men were face down and bloodied. The tents were on fire. Their two jeeps and three choppers were out of action. The six remaining men (led by the gold-toothed man, Duggan) fired upon the windows of a nearby deli and only ceased when the Humvee drove straight through their lines. Parker cackled like a madman as Duggan and his men dove out of the way and he drove off around the corner. A few of the Foragers shot at the vehicle but rifle fire couldn’t penetrate its armour and it was long gone before they could load their M203s.

 

*********

 

Circling back to Walton Street was far easier than it should’ve been.

 

The Foragers obstructed the streets with blockades much like the Republicans, but they didn’t have the manpower to secure much of downtown. I opened the map and gave Parker directions as he drove us up a series of empty back streets that took us to an unobstructed strip of North Broadway, which we crossed, and made out way back to Walton Street. We only came across two checkpoints. Both times Parker kept at a low speed and the Forager squads standing guard just waved us through. It was late in the afternoon when we rolled up at the indoor car park on Walton Street. Parker drove us through the broken barrier and up the spiralling ramps onto the first floor where the black Dodge Ram, hidden away safely amongst dozens of old abandoned cars, waited for us. Parker shut off the engine and threw his skull back into the head rest, sighing.

 

“Now all we have to do is wait,” he said.

 

When I let myself relax, I felt a weight slide off my shoulders. Seeing Parker at ease made me feel at ease. I felt safe for the first time all day. It didn’t last long, though. My head rolled to the left where through the car park’s glassless windows I saw all of midtown in flames. It looked like a blood orange glow at the foot of the horizon. Looming clouds of black smoke joined the darkening skies above. It occurred to me then that the Foragers had just cut the town in half with that firewall, and yet somehow, we had to drive through it.

 

“Do we have a plan here?” I asked. “We’re just handing over this truck and those guns to the Republicans?”

 

Parker shrugged. “If we fuck them over then we’ve got them _and_ Wuhrer on our backs. We can’t risk it. Besides, why not? We got weapons and a ride; all we need now is food and meds. Once we get what we need we’re outta here. Let them all kill each other.”

 

“Even McCullough?”

 

I didn’t like her. I disliked her enough that I didn’t care if she liked me or not (which was rare for me) but it wasn’t until _that_ moment when Parker’s lips (those beautiful peach-coloured lips that had never kissed mine) pulled a sly smile at her name… that was when I genuinely started to think I had something to worry about. Ever since he admitted to killing Pastor Evans, Parker had been acting weird. He hadn’t burned _one thing_ since setting foot in Denver. He was snippy with me. Something felt… different between us and I knew McCullough was making it worse. And then Parker looked at me squarely for what felt like the first time in two days. “I think we should take her with us.”

 

**What?** I thought. “What?”

 

“She ain’t like those dumb sisters back in Polk,” Parker eyed himself in the rear view. “She’s like me, she’s used to the outside, she knows what its like. And she’s smart enough to see that this whole fucking city is a goner.”

 

“You were the one who said we can’t trust anyone out here, remember? You said we need to be smart. That’s what you said. That’s why we didn’t throw in with Dodge and Silver, right? What makes her any different?”

 

Parker frowned. “You mean those two faggots who stole our fuel? They’re the only reason we’re here in the first fucking place, Jay! It ain’t the same – and I can’t watch both our backs on my own.”

 

It really got my goat when he said that. It was like he’d suddenly forgotten that he was the heart and centre of my world. “…What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means you keep PUSSYING out every five fucking seconds!” He snapped. “You nearly got us both killed in Cole and it was your DUMB idea to hide the Escort in a high school! How did _that_ turn out?”

 

We stopped arguing when we heard a crash of broken glass behind us. I froze. Parker froze. He glared out of the rear view, I went for my 9mm. The two of us climbed out of the Humvee with our pistols in hand and advanced only to stop when a girl in a bright yellow, black striped hoodie entered in through a broken fire exit door. It was McCullough. She was bleeding from her hand (where she’d smashed the glass) and a wound on her right forearm, but she was alive. Parker lowered his Luger, smiling to himself.

 

I _really_ didn’t like that smile.


End file.
